Bulletproof Loneliness
by smc-27
Summary: She waits for him to enter, and she almost rolls her eyes when she sees the walking cliché of a man trailing behind him. She doesn't understand why this bodyguard has to come into her apartment at all. Can't he just stand outside the door? Puck/Rachel AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** One of my Twitter friends gave me this prompt, and I loooved it. I finished this up recently, so here it is! It'll be six chapters total and it's totally AU.

... ... ...

He walks into the office without his usual swagger. It's Monday. He hates Mondays. Seriously. They're horseshit. Even if he works most weekends and...okay, well, every goddamn day. There's just something about a Monday that completely kills him. No amount of coffee can fix it, though he's on number two right now, jutting his chin towards his coworkers as he heads for his desk.

Shit, it's early. He also hates the days after he's come off assignment, because that means he has to go to this stupid building (which he rarely has to do; once every few weeks, usually) and sit in on a meeting and get his papers for a new assignment.

He checks his voicemail and shuffles some useless paperwork around on his desk until 8:30 when his boss calls he and his coworkers into the boardroom.

His boss is a total ballbuster. 30, arrogant, pretentious, holier-than-thou, and hot as fuck. Yeah, she's a woman. She wears power suits and walks around with her nose in the air and her dark hair spilling down her back. They used to fuck, but that was back when they were equals, before the stupid owner decided she was better suited as management and promoted her. Puck wasn't happy about that, since the two of them started working at the same time, and she got promoted over him. The money would have been nice, but he doesn't know that he'd like the actual job itself. Sucks that she called off their 'agreement' the minute she stepped behind the desk, though.

And it really sucks to have to call her Miss Lopez when he used to get to call her all sorts of nasty shit in bed, but whatever. Been there, done that, got off, got out.

"Could you at least pretend to be awake?" she asks him when he walks into the conference room. He rolls his eyes.

"'M'tired. Last assignment was a trip," he mumbles.

He sits down in one of the big leather chairs. He watches, sipping his coffee as his coworkers filter into the room. He bumps fists and does secret handshakes. These guys are his boys. Misfits and fucktards, all of them, but whatever. They're cool and they'd take a fucking bullet for him, so that's enough for him.

"Assignments," Santana says, passing out folders. "Big week."

Finn stares at his paper and rolls his eyes. "I hate this douchebag."

"He requested you. Deal with it," Santana snaps.

"Who's this chick?" Matt asks as he reads the information she's handed him in a thick folder.

"Teen star from Japan. She's huge." She doesn't usually allow much room for questions. Her paperwork is scary detailed (Puck doesn't need to know what kind of tampons the French ambassador's wife uses, thanks anyway). "Anything else?"

"Where have I heard this name?" Puck asks, searching through his folder.

"Rachel Berry?" she asks, and he nods. "She's everywhere. She practically owns New York theater right now."

Oh, great. Theater stars are the worst. Uppity bitches.

(Okay, so he's only ever had to deal with two, but they were both complete snots.)

"Why's she need a bodyguard?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at her. "What's anyone want with a fuckin' Broadway chick?"

"Read the file, Puckerman," she says over her shoulder as she walks from the room.

He rolls his eyes and flips through the pages, eyes skimming over words like _single_ (don't care),_ first show at 18_ (really don't care), _Tony nominated_ (whatever),_ from Ohio_ (so's he; doesn't make her special), and _stalker_.

Wait. Stalker?

He takes the file home, reads about the things that lead her to believe she's got someone following her, and he thinks she's either delusional, or there's a really fucked up person out there who's all up in her shit.

He's going to be her bodyguard for the next three weeks, so he's pretty sure he'll learn one way or the other.

... ... ...

She doesn't think she should need a bodyguard in her own city. In fact, she hates it. She lives on the Upper West Side. She works basically non stop. She's practically never alone, and when she is, she's in her apartment, which has more security features than the freaking Pentagon, since her manager is paranoid.

But this month alone, she's appearing on Letterman and Jimmy Fallon, singing the anthem at a Mets/Yankees game, and she's attending the Tonys (nominated and crossing her fingers). This is along with her eight performances of Funny Girl. She's busy. Mike seems to think her public performances put her in a more vulnerable position and insisted she have a little extra protection for the next few weeks. (She's also got a couple days off with which she can do something on her own. Or now apparently with a bodyguard.)

She's known Mike since high school, and they came to New York together after their senior year. She was enrolled in NYU, but took an audition for Les Mis on a whim and got the part, a small supporting one, but still. NYU never happened. Mike, an incredible dancer, went to school for dance until blowing out his knee and transferring to business classes. When it came time for Rachel to require a manager, she drew up a contract and didn't give him much of a choice in the matter. She loves him like a brother. (They both laugh when people suggest they should be something more.)

She's just gotten dressed for the day - she's got to be at the theater in two hours for hair and makeup - when she hears the key turning in the lock. She doesn't even put down her coffee cup or bother to look up from the paper. Only one person has a key to her apartment.

"Rachel!" he calls out.

"Kitchen." She waits for him to enter, and she almost rolls her eyes when she sees the walking cliché of a man trailing behind him. She doesn't understand why this bodyguard has to come into her apartment at all. Can't he just stand outside the door? "Good morning," she greets politely.

(She's nothing if not polite. And she's an actress, so she's excellent at faking it if need be.)

Puck doesn't know what he was expecting, he just knows that the little black and white photo in the folder Santana (no way is he calling her Miss Lopez when he's not around her) gave him didn't do this woman justice. She's gorgeous. Like, he's actually pretty surprised. And she's tiny. Because of his job and the things he has to do, he notes that she'll fit behind him easily, and he can lift her up with ease (girl looks like she weighs about 100 pounds). But yeah...really hot. He's a professional, so whatever, he's not going to do anything, obviously. That doesn't mean he can't think it.

He extends his hand. "Noah Puckerman. You can call me Puck."

She barks out a laugh and looks at him doubtfully. Shit, he doesn't think he's going to like this woman. "I think I'll call you Noah."

"Your call," he mumbles. He glances around, peering down the hall. The place is big, decorated nicely. "How big is this place?"

"2,000 square feet," she answers, casting a look at Mike. "Why?"

"Any fire escapes? Way anyone could get in other than the front door?" Puck walks over to the living room and looks out the windows, her view straight out over the park.

"No," Rachel says. "Why are you asking these questions?"

Puck looks back at her, and he thinks that if she's going to question everything he does for the next three weeks he's not going to make it. "'S'my job. Anyone else have keys?"

"Just Mike."

"Neighbours?"

Now she's getting irritated. She understands this is his job, that he needs to understand, but all she knows his his name and he's been here five minutes. She doesn't know why she expected small talk or at least an exchange of pleasantries. Maybe because any other time she's had a bodyguard (a few times in L.A. for events), they've been polite, cordial and sweet.

This man is not sweet, and as far as she can tell he has no manners to speak of. Just because he looks the way he does doesn't mean he can get away with being rude. She's almost considering having Mike call the security agency back and having them send someone else.

But then she watches this man, Noah (the name seems too nice for what she's seen from him), walk through her apartment, checking the locks on the windows and door. He's clearly no stranger to the gym. His arms are gorgeous, toned, tanned muscle. He's wearing a khaki green tee shirt that seems to drape between his shoulders. His thighs fill out his jeans and she can't help the way her eyes roam over his backside. She's...

Mike's looking at her like he's completely amused. She's blushing, because she knows she just got caught.

"Shut up," she whispers.

"I didn't say a word," Mike laughs. He shakes his head while she grabs her coffee cup again. "I've gotta run. I'm meeting Brittany for brunch so we can talk about her new gig."

"Okay," Rachel says.

"You two okay alone here?" he asks.

Puck walks back over and almost begs this dude to stay. He doesn't know what the hell to say to this woman once they're alone. This is the part of the job he hates, the first couple days before they're comfortable with one another. Mike told him she's got to go to work soon, so Puck knows that at least it won't be long before she's out of his way. He's got to scope out the theater's security systems and talk to the security guards. He's actually got a lot of shit to do.

"Yeah. We're good," Puck says, because it appears this chick wasn't going to say anything.

Rachel walks Mike to the door, and Puck watches her. She's totally gorgeous. It's kind of unreal. Her hair is long and silky, spilling down her back, and the denim shorts she's wearing are giving him a stellar view of her ass and her legs. Goddamn, she's got a pair of legs on her. He's a professional, but shit. That doesn't mean he can't look.

She doesn't say anything to him, just nods when he asks if he can look around and get a feel for the place. What is she supposed to say? It's not like he's going to be staying at her apartment or anything - thank goodness - but she figures he needs to know what he's dealing with.

And this whole stalker thing has kind of shaken her. It's not crazy and she's not necessarily scared. Well, she's not that scared. It's just unnerving. She's gotten letters and photos of herself that are not paparazzi-quality (thankfully, her fan mail address is simply a PO box). She's received flowers to her dressing room and a necklace, which Mike promptly took from her. That was the last straw that led to him hiring a bodyguard. She doesn't know if this person would ever do her any harm, but it's not exactly a risk she wants to take. Mike tends to be a little overprotective of her, since they're friends first and their working relationship tends to come second, but she figures it's not the worst thing in the world to have this man watching out for her.

"Are you done?" she asks after a while, when Noah is walking around her spare bedroom checking the windows. "I have to be at the theater, so..."

"Yeah. Right," he says. "Lead the way."

He follows her out of the apartment, watches as she turns her keys in all three locks. He looks either way down the hall (force of habit, okay?) and hits the button for the elevator.

"I usually take the stairs," she tells him, hand on hip.

"Not anymore."

She lets out a huff and glares at him. "Why not?"

"Not safe."

"Are you capable of saying more than two words at a time?"

The elevator dings and opens in front of them, and he sticks his arm out so the door won't close until she's inside. "Nope."

She rolls her eyes, hits the button for the ground floor, and decides that Mike is trying to pay her back for any time she's acted even remotely like a diva.

It's the only reason she can think of to explain why he'd pick this man to protect her.

Noah practically barbaric. She doesn't say a word to him the entire way to the theater. She knows Mike won't believe her when she says it later, because she talks all the time, wants to know as much about as many people as possible.

She doesn't care to know a single thing about this man whose fingers are drumming on his leg as he wanders around her dressing room. With any amount of luck, he'll just blend into the background.

She steals a glance at him and wonders if it's even possible for a man who looks_ like that _to ever blend in.

... ... ...

It's two days before he starts driving her crazy.

Two days before she starts driving him crazy, too.

He's less discrete about it.

"Are you kidding me? _No_."

"Noah, I need to shop. I have to get a dress for this event. Do you own a suit? You should get one. If you're coming..."

"I own a damn suit," he cuts her off. "I'm sure you own dresses. I'm not going fucking shopping."

"Well I am, and you're getting paid to follow me around, so..."

Oh, _hell_ no.

"I'm getting paid to make sure you don't get kidnapped by your crazy ass stalker."

She narrows her eyes. It's not the first time he's talked about the stalker. She doesn't like to think about it. She doesn't like anyone bringing it up. She told him that the other day, but he doesn't seem to care about what she wants at all.

"_So_, you're coming with me. I'm sorry, but my life doesn't get put on hold just because I've got a shadow," she finishes.

She's walking down the sidewalk with her chin in the air and he groans and follows after her.

He doesn't _want_ to be her goddamn shadow.

... ... ...

He kicks off his shoes somewhere in the hall of his apartment (which seems really damn small compared to her 2,000 square feet and park view) and grabs a beer before sitting down on his couch and turning on ESPN.

Shopping? Not only is it stupid, but exhausting, too. How many stores does one woman need to go in to find a dress? Isn't it a fairly simple process? Find something you like, put it on, buy it. Done.

And he can't believe he let her talk him into buying a new tie. His ties are just fine, thank you very much. But apparently this $80 Ralph Lauren or whoeverthefuck is_ "Infinitely better than anything you currently own, I'm sure." _

God, could she be more of a stuck up bitch?

Okay, so he doesn't know her very well. They haven't spent a ton of time actually talking or anything. She's on stage like, 70 per cent of the time he's supposed to be watching her. So he stands in the wings and listens to her sing the _same_ songs _over_ and _over_ again. (Well, it's been two days, but he's seen the show_ four fucking times_, which is more than he's ever seen any show ever. He's not what you'd call a Broadway enthusiast. There was that one time he dated a dancer, but that was more 'cause she could lift her legs up over her head than because he really appreciated her talent.

He really wants to ignore his phone when it starts to ring, and he does the first time. But then it rings again and he's forced to fish it out of his pocket and actually deal with the a-hole who's calling him twice in the span of three minutes.

Finn. Of course.

"Come for a beer," Finn says. No room for argument.

Fuck that rule.

"Got one."

"C'mon, man. We're going to Joe's."

Puck rolls his eyes. That's where they always go. If he didn't know any better, he'd think it's the only bar in Manhattan. And yeah, the beer is cheap and the owner loves them, but Puck slept with the only hot waitress like, three weeks ago, and he doesn't want to deal with all that _'Why didn't you call me'_ stuff.

Or _'Why did you leave in the middle of the night' _stuff, as the case may be.

"I'm good, man. Tired as fuck."

"Broadway chick taking a lot out of you?" Finn asks.

Puck does not know why he suddenly think of Rachel naked and on top of him. Weird.

"She's a piece of work," Puck says, because it sounds appropriate.

Even if the image in his head isn't.

"Alright, well listen, that's where we'll be tonight if you change your mind," Finn says. Puck sips his beer. He's not going anywhere. "And you're still coming on Friday, right?"

Puck groans. Fucking work interfering in his fucking life. The guys were supposed to go see a kick ass AC-DC (shut up) cover band on Friday. Now he's going to some fucking stupid arts gala or...whatever.

"Can't," he grumbles.

"Dude! It's Thunderstruck!"

"I know," Puck says. He's almost laughing, because it's kind of hilarious how excited Finn is. "I gotta work. There's this thing."

"She really got a stalker?" Finn asks.

Puck shrugs his shoulder. "Dunno yet. I'd rather not find out the hard way on my watch."

"Totally," Finn says. As much as they like to fuck around in their time off, they both take their jobs way seriously. "Good luck, man. Have fun."

"Fun," Puck scoffs. "$1,000 a plate dinner with a bunch of douchey rich fuckers. I'm sure I'll have a blast."

They say goodbye and hang up, and Puck turns his phone to silent. No one ever calls him anyway, except his boys and his mom. Santana used to, sometimes. Apparently actual sex was against the rules, but phone sex was totally still on the table. That shit was hot for a while, but then they both got bored and she didn't seem to agree with his assessment that they just needed to do it for real again. Bitch.

And yeah, he's got women he could call, but he really is exhausted and the last thing he wants is to have to go out (because hello, he tends not to bring women to his place, since they get all needy and shit and he's all, "okay thanks bye," as soon as the condom's in the trash). So basically, he's going to finish his beer, have a quick shower, and get his ass into bed.

Then his phone lights up again, just as he's contemplating checking out a little porn (what? he's a dude and he lives alone; guy has needs, you know?). He picks it up and sees RB on the screen next to the little mailbox telling him he has a text. What the hell could she possibly want right now, and why did he agree to let her put her number in his phone?

But then when the annoyance wears off he panics for a second, wondering if there's something wrong or whatever. It's his job. He takes it seriously.

_Don't forget I have an interview tomorrow morning. Pls be here at 7:30. No later. _

He tries really hard not to throw his phone against the wall.

Seven. Fucking. Thirty.

... ... ...

When they get to the theater the next day, there are daisies in her dressing room, and Rachel doesn't seem to think anything of it. She goes about dropping her bag where she always drops it and getting her costume all organized. Puck walks over to the table all her flowers and cards and teddy bears (seriously) are left, and he grabs the card from the bouquet of daisies. It's the only one he's interested in, because it wasn't there last night and the theater should have been closed until just before they arrived today.

He reads the piece of paper, and there must be something different about his face because Rachel's standing in front of him now.

"What?" she asks.

"This is from Richard." She snatches the card out of his hand and reads it. "Rachel, who would have brought these in here?"

"I...I don't know," she stutters, handing the card back to him. "Janie knows not to...I don't know."

"_Think_," he says seriously. Maybe this stalker thing wasn't something he should have joked about with Finn the other day. "Is there a...I dunno, a stage hand or..."

"No." She shakes her head. "No, they don't handle this kind of thing." She meets his eyes, and for the first time she actually thinks he cares about her at least a little bit. Not that he has to, he just has to do his job, but it's nice to know he's not just doing it because there's a paycheck waiting for him. "Does this mean...Was he here?"

"There's a chance," he admits. She closes her eyes and takes a breath. "Come on. We're going."

"Noah! I can't just go! I have a responsibility to the people who have paid money to see this show!" she protests.

"It's also your life, and you've got some freak writing you notes about how you looked outside your place after your show last night. You're not fucking staying here," he tells her. He grabs her arm in one hand and her bag in another.

She wrenches her arm from his hand. "Listen!" she shouts, far louder than she has to. "This person hasn't done anything to harm me, or to indicate that he would. It's just infatuation. I have a show to perform. And I'm not going to let this guy take over my life."

"Rachel, if something happens, I lose my fucking job," he says.

Shit. That sounds really selfish now that it's out in the open.

She starts unbuttoning her shirt. This is about the time he usually goes outside and stands by her door. He's going to do that, and then when she's in makeup, he's going to the security office to tear a strip off them for obviously fucking up. He's going to review security footage and see if he can catch a glimpse of whoever brought those flowers in. Maybe he's overreacting, but he doesn't really want to take the chance. If this chick wasn't so fucking stubborn, maybe it'd work out.

"I'm going on that stage, Noah," she says defiantly. She's wearing this little white tank top under her button down shirt, and he only looks, like, once. "Kindly leave so I can prepare."

"You're fucking _crazy_," he tells her, and he makes sure he slams the door hard behind him.

... ... ...

The show goes off without incident, and Puck most certainly is not whistling the title track of the musical while he waits outside Rachel's dressing room. He does, however, smirk and wink at the cast member (read: hot girl) who notices.

And he checked with security and probably pissed them off by calling them _'a bunch of amateur fucking rent-a-cops with no sense',_ but whatever, because those douches obviously weren't doing their jobs. There was nothing suspicious on the security footage from the night before or this morning, but there are also no cameras in the hallway with the dressing rooms, which Puck has the head of security make note to change.

Rachel decides she wants to just hang around at the theater instead of going out between shows, so Puck makes himself comfortable on the couch in her dressing room, and she sends one of her minions (she doesn't call them that, but Puck does) to pick up some food. She gets some ridiculous salad, and he orders a burger from this amazing place he knows. And fries. And a Coke. And when Rachel asks him if he knows what he's doing to his body by eating that 'stuff', he lifts up his shirt, takes a look at his abs, and tells her he doesn't think there's anything to worry about.

He doesn't really know what it means that she's blushing.

(He thinks she looks pretty hot with that colour in her face.)


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday evening when Puck drops her off at her place (after notifying the doorman of the situation and talking with the staff security guard at her building), Puck does a quick sweep of her apartment "just to be sure." Rachel tries not to smile. He's actually not so bad when he's not being arrogant. Unfortunately, that's not very much of the time. Once he's satisfied and sure there's no one in her apartment (the thought scares her momentarily before she realizes there's really no way one could have gotten in; and yes, she's just going to keep believing that to maintain her sanity) he heads to the door and she follows behind him, one hand tucked into the back pocket of her jeans.

She laughs when she tells him to bring his suit tomorrow so he can change after her matinee. She hears him groan and mumble something about 'this stupid event'.

She locks the door behind him and turns on the television to catch up on her favourite show on her DVR. She quickly changes into her pajamas and pours herself a glass of wine, sitting down to watch Dr. Sam Bennett give the diagnosis of the week. Taye Diggs is one of the only people she's ever been starstruck in front of, which is kind of ridiculous, since Idina is practically her mentor. But she's always had a bit of a crush on him, since she first saw him in Rent on Broadway. Seeing him on television every week is lovely.

The apartment is quiet, and she can hear the city below her, buzzing with activity even at this hour.

But it's times like these she realizes how lonely she is.

She never used to be. She's always been independent and self-sufficient, and she's never needed anyone to sit with or sleep next to or talk to about her day. She _doesn't_ need it. She just wants it. She's creeping up on 30 (or steamrolling, as it feels since she turned 28 a couple months ago) and her longest relationship was with a former costar. It ended badly and she doesn't miss him, but she misses the little things about being in a relationship. Coming home to someone, or having someone to eat meals with.

Maybe that's why, despite his complete lack of tact and manners, she actually enjoyed those couple hours of downtime with Noah today. He's quite funny when he chooses to speak polysyllabically, and when he laughs, she can't help but smile along with him.

The credits roll on her show and she turns off the television, checks the locks on the door (she may be just a little more rattled than she was letting on) and heads to bed. It's very, very strange, but she wonders if Noah has a significant other. She doesn't know why she's thinking about it. She chalks it up to spending most of her time the last few days with him.

... ... ...

He's pacing outside her apartment door wearing his stupid suit (he knows he looks awesome, but whatever; he resents having to wear a fucking _suit_) as he waits for her to be ready. He's been pacing for an hour and she still hasn't come out yet. He checks his watch for what feels like the 400th time, groans, and knocks at the door again.

"Rachel, c'mon. How the hell long does it take to put on a damn dress?" he asks. He's pretty sure this is what it's like to have a girlfriend (waiting, waiting, waiting), and it just reminds him that he's not interested in that shit.

There's no sound from inside, so he's sure she's still in her bedroom or something, which is just annoying as fuck. He knows there's a limo waiting for them downstairs, and she seems to be taking her sweetass time. And he swears, if this is about shoes or her fucking hair or not being able to decide which damn earrings to wear, he's gonna punch something.

The door opens a crack and he hears her tell him to come in. "Fucking _finally_," he mumbles as he steps into the apartment.

He doesn't really mean to stare at her. Really.

It's just that she's wearing this short little red strapless dress, and her legs (and the rest of her) look hot as fuck, and honestly, if he weren't working, he'd be hitting her with his best stuff and trying to get her to agree to let him strip her down.

Holy shit.

She's so _gorgeous_.

"I'm almost ready," she says, fastening her necklace.

"Leave it off," he says before he can stop himself.

She stops what she's doing and looks at him. "Pardon me?"

"The necklace." He points to the silver (or probably platinum or whatever, knowing her) necklace in her hands. "Don't wear it."

"Why not?" she asks, putting her hand on her hip. What on earth does this man know about fashion? Granted, he looks amazing in his suit and she thinks it might be a Hugo Boss or something, but that's not the point. There's no way he knows anything about accessorizing women's dresses.

(She realizes that maybe he doesn't know anything about fashion, but she's getting the impression he knows about women in general. That thought shouldn't send a jolt down her spine.)

"Looks better without," he says, shrugging his shoulder. He checks the time, but she doesn't buy the aloof act. She stares at him expectantly until he's looking at her again. He rolls his eyes. "Look, you've got a really nice upper body. Great collarbone, and your neck is..." (Hot as fuck.) "Really nice," he repeats. "The necklace is distracting. Just trust me. Now come on. Fuck. You're gonna be late for your lameass song and dance party or whatever the fuck this thing is."

She grabs her clutch purse and hopes he doesn't notice that she's blushing. He complimented her neck. She shouldn't be wondering what else he happens to think is 'nice' about her. She's losing her mind.

"Your language is appalling," she states authoritatively as she walks past him towards the door.

"Yeah, well, I don't get paid enough to clean that shit up. Move your ass, Berry."

... ... ...

Turns out this lameass song and dance party? Pretty much exactly what he expected. The cause is good, fundraising to keep music programs in schools, but if you ask him it's just a bunch of dicks with money who want the other dicks with money to see them at this event.

So whatever.

It's not exactly easy to keep his eye on Rachel, since there seems to be a ridiculous amount of people here. It's pretty stupid, actually. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was trying to lose him or something. She's like, the life of the party. Everyone seems to want to talk to her, so she's moving around the room a lot and being pulled in a million different directions.

He sees Mike walk into the room, and he juts his chin subtly in the guy's direction. He feels a little better knowing there's someone else there looking out for her, and he knows (saw the seating chart) that Mike is sitting next to Rachel. Puck sees one of the other guys who works for his agency standing across the room, so they acknowledge one another subtly, like the guys always do for some reason.

When he goes back to watching Rachel, he sees her take a sip of her champagne, run her fingertips lightly over the front of her neck for some reason, and he decides that getting paid to watch this woman really isn't the worst thing in the world.

... ... ...

Sunday, she's singing at Yankee Stadium, and it takes her two hours and a very long phone call with her friend and unofficial stylish, Kurt, to figure out what she's supposed to wear. She decides on a pair of (ridiculously expensive, but perfectly fitting) jeans, black leather boots, and a white tee shirt with a navy tank top beneath. She's idly singing along with the top 40 radio station as she putters around, tidying up the kitchen, when there's a knock at the door. She checks the time and notes that it must be Noah, since he's finally understanding that she likes him to be at least 15 minutes earlier than any of her itineraries state.

She's actually surprised Noah hasn't commented on this being the only thing about her week he can even tolerate. Men like baseball, don't they? It's clear he's not a fan of the theater, and any conversation she's attempted to start about it has earned her an incredulous look or a roll of the eyes. She's learned that it's best to just not try to talk to him about that kind of thing.

But sports, that should excite him, shouldn't it? And she's going to be on the field, so he'll have to be close by, probably closer to the players than he's ever been. Would it kill him to show some enthusiasm?

And why has she spent the last 20 minutes thinking about this?

"Hi," she says happily. She's read that the energy you show people is the energy you get back.

Apparently that rule doesn't apply to Noah, because he grunts, nods at her, and practically taps his foot as he waits for her to grab her bag and walk towards the door. She shouldn't be annoyed. It's just that, the way she sees it, they've spent the better part of a week together and they've got two more to go, and there's no reason they can't be civilized. Yes, they've had their moments when they've actually spoken and gotten along, but does this have to be strictly a business arrangement? Don't other 'celebrities' (she uses the word cautiously) converse with their body guards? Those Gossip Girl kids are always joking with theirs (she's seen them on set). Certainly Noah could at least try to engage in conversation and be polite.

Once they're inside the town car that's taking them to the stadium Rachel glances at Noah, who has his head tipped back against the seat and his eyes closed.

"Tired?" she asks.

He opens one eye and turns his head to look at her. "Your life is exhausting," he admits. She laughs quietly, raises her brow and nods her head. "You're a busy girl."

She doesn't think anyone's referred to her as a 'girl' in at least five years. She finds she quite likes it. And for some reason she can hear his voice in her head, calling her _his_ girl, which is just ridiculous and irrational.

"Are you excited for the game, at least?" she asks, hoping to pull him into the conversation using sports. "You must be a fan."

"Sure," he says, shrugging his shoulder. "More of an Indians fan, though."

For a moment she thinks he's complaining, but then she realizes he's just sharing a detail about himself, so she refrains from rolling her eyes at him.

"Are you from Ohio?" she asks curiously.

"Yup. Outside Cleveland."

"I'm from Ohio, too!"

She thinks she sounds far too excited, and when she turns in her seat her knee brushes against his. He gives her this little look, and she's not really sure what that means, but she likes the way his lips are curved upward in this know-it-all smirk. That's something different for her; usually she hates that kind of smug trait.

"Yeah," he tells her. "I know."

She shouldn't be embarrassed, but she is, a little bit. "Oh," she says quietly. "Right. Of course."

She wonders how much he knows about her life. She doesn't think it's very fair that she doesn't know anything about him other than he puts chipotle mayo on his burger and grew up in Ohio and apparently thinks she has a nice upper body (no, she hasn't forgotten that).

She should not want to know this man who's temporarily in her life, not the details anyway. He's only going to be around for two more weeks, then she'll probably never see him again.

So she says nothing more the entire car ride to Yankee Stadium, and when they're ushered into the building she ignores how his hand feels at the small of his back. It's just his job. He's there to 'protect her'. She appreciates it, especially after the other day.

She starts warming up in her dressing room, and Puck goes to stand outside. There are security personnel and NYPD roaming the halls already, and Puck briefly wonders if he could have done that, if he could have been a cop. He thinks about it all the time, but really, he loves his job. He likes switching up his surroundings every so often and he gets paid well for what he does. He's awesome at it, too. Sure, he doesn't carry a gun or anything like that, but he knows how to take a guy down about 25 different ways without firing a bullet. He knows how to disarm people. He's dealt with all sorts of shit.

And he gets to do shit like this, hang out in the halls of Yankee Stadium with a gorgeous woman singing scales as Andy Pettitte walks by and nods at him. Pretty fucking cool.

When they're standing at the entrance to the field right before she's about to sing, he looks down at her and she's taking big breaths, letting them out slowly.

"Knock 'em dead, kid," he says, elbowing her a little. She laughs and looks up at him and her smile is damn near the cutest thing he's ever seen.

"Thank you."

"Just stay away from A-Rod," he mumbles.

He does not expect her to laugh.

"Believe me," she says as she straightens out her jacket, "I'm very well aware of the detrimental effects of steroid use on a man's body."

So that's the first time she makes him genuinely smile.

Her name is announced and she walks out onto the field. He stands there like everyone else with his hand over his heart (mama raised him right) and listens to her absolutely belt the anthem out. She sounds amazing and the crowd loves her.

And the bonus? The whole thing goes off without any indication that there's a creepy stalker trying to get at her.

... ... ...

Apparently, his relief comes too soon.

His phone rings. It's fucking 2:00 in the fucking morning, and he's barely even able to register that it's in fact his phone making noise. He fumbles for it on the bedside table, sees that it's Santana, and hits the green button. His greeting is a grunt, but he doesn't care. (It's fucking _2:00 in the fucking morning_.)

"Are you up?"

Goddamn, is her voice always that nasal? Fuck.

"No, give me a minute to picture you naked and I'll be good to go," he says sleepily, rolling onto his back.

"No, I mean _are_ _you_ _up_. You need to get to Rachel Berry's apartment right now," she barks.

"Huh? Why?" He doesn't know why he's suddenly very awake and there's a whole lot of worry coursing through him.

"There was an incident with someone getting into her building. They're not sure how, but they're checking video footage. Apparently this person has been seen loitering around the area," Santana explains. He's already got his pants on and his wallet tucked into his pocket. "You can pack a bag tomorrow. Just go there now."

Whoa. Whoa. Pack a bag?

"What?"

"Well, you're staying there with her from now on."

He doesn't know if it's dedication to the job, or just to Rachel (shut up, it's weird) that keeps him from arguing.

"Fine. I get paid more for this shit, right?" he asks. He hears her let out a huff, but honestly, he doesn't give a shit. If he's gotta deal with fucking stalkers and potential break ins, he wants a little danger pay.

"Puckerman, can you deal with that later? God, this woman's life could be in danger. You want to maybe at least make it appear like you care about someone other than yourself?" she asks.

He doesn't get a chance to respond, because she hangs up.

"_Bitch_," he says to his phone (her) for whatever reason. It's the middle of the night, okay? Cut the dude some slack.

... ... ...

He gets to Rachel's place with a duffel bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. Coffee! At 3:00 a.m. or whatever the fuck time it is. God, he doesn't even care. He just knows he's not sleeping any time soon.

Mike is there, sitting in a chair with the television on at a low volume as he types something out on his Blackberry. Rachel is laying on the couch, hands tucked under her cheek as she sleeps. Puck doesn't know who this dude is who opened the door, but he's little and he sizes Puck up in a way that's not entirely comfortable.

"You're the bodyguard," the guy says, eyebrow raised and a weird little grin on his face. "Even better than Costner. I approve."

Puck kind of wishes this kid was the stalker, just so punching him would be considered justifiable.

"Who's this?" Puck asks Mike, jerking his thumb in the direction of the new guy. He drops his duffel on the floor softly enough not to wake Rachel.

"Kurt. Rachel's best friend," Mike explains. He stands from his place. "She just got to sleep. Kind of a crazy night."

"Yeah," Puck says, scrubbing a hand over the top of his head. "Heard."

"There's extra security and they think they got a visual of the guy, so they're going to keep an eye out and the police have been notified. And they've activated security on the elevator, so everyone has to use a fob and they can only get to their own floors," Mike says. Puck nods. These are all good things. He looks at Rachel, then at ESPN Classic playing on the television. "We're gonna go."

"Yeah," Puck says, reaching out to shake Mike's hand. "I got it from here."

"Take care of my girl, or I will hunt you down," Kurt says seriously, arms crossed as he eyes Puck.

Seriously? _This kid_ is Rachel's best friend? God.

Puck doesn't say anything, just ushers them to the door and locks it behind them.

It's his job to take care of the girl.

And she really does look worried, even as she's sleeping. There's a crease in her brow and she shifts every so often. He's pretty sure this whole thing scared her pretty badly, and he really hates that he wasn't around when it happened. He could have made her feel better, protected. He can't beat himself up over it, since he wasn't supposed to be around her 24 hours a day, but it's on him to make sure she's safe, and there's no way he's fucking that up. No way.

He doesn't know what the fuck is up with ESPN Classic at 3:00 a.m., but he doesn't consider Lebron's first game 'classic'. But there's exactly nothing else on, so he watches it, sips his coffee, which isn't doing anything at all to wake him up. Is it possible that it's making him more tired?

He looks over at Rachel, and seriously, he wants to be laying where she is. Not _with_ her or anything, because fuck...no. But laying there. Sleeping. Alone. Without her taking up valuable couch space. He _needs_ to sleep.

He sighs, because there's no way he's going to wake her up or anything, and he's not just going to leave her there and find somewhere else to sleep (she does have a spare bedroom). He walks over and scoops her up into his arms. It takes no effort whatsoever, because she weighs like, two pounds and he can bench 250. She kind of moans a little bit and literally snuggles herself against his neck. Her skin is hot against his, and he's trying really fucking hard not to pinch her and wake her up or something. He can't decide if he'd want her to kiss him or just be awake enough to realize what she's doing and stop it.

When he lays her down in her bed, she seems reluctant to let him go. He covers her over and she somehow grabs onto his arm. It's just light, her fingers on his forearm, palm close to his wrist.

"Noah," she says quietly.

He actually smiles. It's not so bad, his first name, when she's the one saying it.

"Go to sleep, Rach," he says, tucking her in a little more. She lets out a sigh and rolls onto her side, clutches the corner of her duvet in her arms.

He doesn't know why he called her that shortened form of her name, but it doesn't really matter. He leaves her bedroom door open and walks back into the living room, switches off the television, and gets comfortable on the couch.

He honestly doesn't remember the last time he stayed in a woman's apartment and slept on the couch.

Actually, he can't even remember the last time he slept at a woman's apartment, period.


	3. Chapter 3

Mike calls in the morning, after Rachel has showered and slipped into jeans and an NYU tee shirt, and he tells her she's not going to the theater today. She's not going anywhere today. Puck rubs his eyes and folds the blanket he used while sleeping on the couch as he listens to her yell into the phone about whatever she's yelling about. He yanks his tee shirt off (he was going to sleep in just his boxers, but from what he knows of Rachel, she'd lose her shit over that or something, so tee shirt and sweats it was). He's been wearing far too many clothes for far too long, and he's starting to feel claustrophobic or something, if that's possible. For a dude who usually sleeps naked, that was like wearing a full suit of armor.

When he turns around, she's kind of staring at him, and it's really hard not to just smirk and raise his brow like he usually does when he wants to get a woman into bed.

Wait. He doesn't want to get Rachel into bed. It's just that when women look at him like that, its his first instinct to see how far they'll actually let him take it.

(Would he totally sleep with Rachel if he wasn't working for her? Fuck yeah. Girl's gorgeous and _vocal_.)

"Would you like something to eat?" she asks.

How on earth was she unaware he had that body under his shirts? It's obvious he's built well, but she hasn't let herself give much thought to what's beneath his clothes. Mostly because she does not have the time or energy for a man in her life right now. Noah has been thrust (oh, gosh) into her life, but if it came down to a choice between having a stalker and Noah, or having no stalker and no Noah, she wouldn't think twice. Living in fear is an exhausting peril. And yes, perhaps slightly less-so when she knows Noah is around. Maybe she should allow herself to think of him more, since it will stop her from thinking of everything else.

Her cheeks feel far too hot right now.

"'M'fuckin' starved," he mumbles. He decides he doesn't really need to put a shirt on right now. He's got this woman blushing, and it's pretty hot, and there's no reason he can't enjoy that, right?

"What would you like? I can make...well, I'm vegan, but I know you're not. I can put together a breakfast wrap. Or I can order in!"

She's all flustered. He's pretty sure she'd be amazing in bed. All this energy, nervous and otherwise, is a pretty clear indicator.

"Got Cheerios?" he asks. "Honey Nut would be amazing."

She smiles and nods (thank goodness that's Kurt's favourite and he demands she keep the cereal in her apartment), heads for a cupboard while he sits down at the island in the kitchen and scrubs a hand over his head. When she reaches for the box of cereal, he sees her shirt ride up and gets a glimpse of what looks like a little tattoo on the back of her hip. His brow goes sky high and he's dying to get a closer look, but damn. He just can't go there. He needs to stop this. She's his mark, and he's not going there. Appreciating is one thing. Telling her to pull her jeans down so he can see what's inked dangerously close to her ass is another.

"I only have soy milk. Is that okay?" she asks as she grabs a bowl.

"Guess so," he laughs. He doesn't really have much of a choice. "Coffee?"

She laughs a little and points to the coffee pot. "I think we're both going to need a lot of this today," she says.

She bites her lip as she pours his cereal into a bowl and simultaneously reaches for a spoon. She nudges the drawer shut with her hip and contemplates asking him why he'd carry her to bed. He obviously did, though she doesn't remember it. She feels, however, that the answer is fairly obvious (she was asleep on the sofa instead of in her bed) and he'd probably have some curse-laden answer to her question. They're getting along well right now, she thinks, even if he's half asleep and she's already going stir crazy.

"Thanks," he mumbles when she sets the bowl in front of him. She smiles at him before reaching for two mugs. "So what's up for today?"

She scoffs and glares over her shoulder as she pours coffee. "You tell me? What am I allowed to do?"

"Anything but get your perfect ass kidnapped by the crazy dude," he says with his mouth full.

Fuck. He didn't really mean to call her ass perfect (it definitely is, especially in these jeans) but he was looking at it and that just kind of slipped out.

"I beg your pardon?" she asks, but she's totally almost laughing, so he doesn't think she's going to turn him in for sexual harassment or something.

He points to her ass with his spoon and gives her a crooked grin. "'S'a good ass."

"Thank you," she giggles. She doesn't honestly know the last time a man made her _giggle_. She figures, however, that if he's flirting, there's no reason she can't flirt back. She leans her elbows on the counter and places her chin in her hands. "And just how much time do you spend staring at my ass?"

He leans forward a little, wipes the milk from the corner of his lip with his thumb. "'Bout as much time as you spend staring at mine."

She thinks this is dangerous territory. Dangerous, incredibly fun territory. She stands up straight again, smiling at him as she takes a sip of her coffee. To be honest, she's never been a spectacular flirt. It's somehow easy with him. Maybe because he oozes sex from every pore and is sitting half naked in her kitchen and most definitely flirting back. Part of her wants to lean over and kiss him, run her hands down his toned chest and push at the fabric of the sweatpants he's wearing. She doesn't doubt that he's the kind of man who can back up every single sexual comment, every suggestive mannerism he makes. That smirk seems to say it all (all being, _'I could make you come harder than you've ever felt'_). The swagger with which he walks tells her he's got rhythm, and she thinks they'd work together perfectly.

She's blushing again. She's got her back to him this time, so it's slightly less embarrassing, even if she is 100 per cent positive he's looking at her backside again.

... ... ...

Turns out Rachel doesn't care if he watches one of her (no lie) 30 movie channels and sips bottled water while she sits at the other end of the couch with her laptop open.

Turns out it's super annoying when she turns the screen towards him and asks his opinion on the stuff she's buying from online discount stores. (Honestly, woman is one of the highest paid Broadway stars, apparently, and she's buying shit from ebay.) But yeah, she'd look hot in those silver heels, and that dress, even though it's a little long (to the knee), is nice enough.

When she stops showing him things he gets worried that she's going to max out her credit card or something, so he glances over at her. She's still biting her thumbnail like she's been doing all morning as he watches Reservoir Dogs (so kick ass) on her huge television.

"What're you doing now?" he asks. It's not really his business, but whatever.

"Shopping." She doesn't even look away from the screen.

"But you haven't bugged me in like, 15 minutes."

"So?" she laughs. "I'm not allowed to be quiet?"

"Oh, you're more than allowed," he says with a smirk, turning towards her and draping his arm over the back of the sofa. "Just didn't know you were capable."

She playfully glares at him. "You really think you're hilarious." He shrugs his shoulder and takes a sip of his water. "I'm looking for a really great pair of boots."

He lifts his brow. See, now this is a purchase he can get on board with.

"What kinda boots?" he asks, inching closer so he can peek at the screen.

"Leather. Black," she says nonchalantly. "Thigh high."

"No way," he says, laughing softly. "Didn't figure you for the type."

When she looks at him, there's fire in her eyes. "Is that some kind of prostitute joke? Because if it is, I certainly don't appreciate it. I'll have you know thigh high boots are incredibly in fashion right now, and..."

He's not listening at all. He's picturing her in very little more than a pair of black leather thigh high boots, and fuck, who could blame him? He's seen what a pair of heels can do to her legs and ass and general demeanor (seriously, she slips on a pair of heels and somehow gains even more confidence, and it's sexy as hell).

"Are you even listening to me?" she asks.

He turns back to the television. "Not really," he admits. "Hey, where are you sending all this shit? You really shouldn't have packages sent here."

Yes, it's a blatant subject change, but it's also the truth.

"I send everything to Kurt," she says with no further explanation. She doesn't need Noah to know that Kurt approves nearly every piece in her wardrobe. She glances at the television and cringes. "This movie is incredibly violent."

"Yeah, well, not every movie is about a cloistered princess who sings with birds or some shit." She raises her brow. He just said 'cloistered' and has obviously seen such movies. "I have a little sister."

"Really?" she asks, surprised.

"Yup. Not so little anymore. She's 21. Goes to university in Cinci."

"What's she like?"

He smirks and looks at her from the corner of his eye. "Smart, funny, sneaky as hell, pretty. Basically me, in a different package."

Rachel laughs and gathers her hair in her hand, sectioning it in three and starting on a braid. "Your poor mother," she jokes. He barks out a laugh. "What is your mom like?"

"What's with the 20 questions?" he asks, looking at her again. She seems caught off guard by his question. "Just kinda weird. We haven't really talked all that much."

"Well, considering you know everything about me, from what I had for lunch two weeks ago to the fact that I lost my virginity at 17 to my high school boyfriend, I don't think it's necessarily out of the question for me to want to know some things about you," she says. He looks far too amused. She closes her eyes and sucks in a breath. "You actually didn't know that, did you?"

"Nope." He doesn't know why he's so satisfied that he can get her all riled up. "Good to know, though."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, clearly you need that piece of information."

"Can't hurt. Feel free to share more shit like that if you want to," he says, winking at her.

"I'm sure you've just broken about 30 rules of your employment," she laughs. He doesn't think she really cares all that much.

He leans in a little closer and flashes a smile. "You won't tell on me, will you?" he asks, and yeah, it probably comes out a little lower than he wants it to, but he's distracted by her eyes and her lips, so he can't be blamed.

And honestly, the woman gives him a run for his money anyway when she locks eyes with him and says, "I'm a very good secret keeper."

It's like fighting gravity trying to ignore the fact that he's definitely going to fuck her before this assignment is over.

... ... ...

When a reporter calls Rachel after dinner to ask if she has an official statement on the stalker situation, or any other details she can share, she isn't sure how anyone knows about it at all. But then she remembers that gossip rags pay a lot for tips and information, and enough people at the theater know what's going on. Someone could have easily sold some of the information to make a quick dollar.

Still, she barks out an admittedly bitchy 'no comment' and slams her cell down on the table, runs her hands through her hair. Noah is looking at her. He's standing there with his arms crossed and a bit of a worried look on his face, and for whatever reason, it all comes to a head. Someone out there is trying to get close to her, to do what, she doesn't know. That's the most terrifying part. Her life is being turned upside down because there's a chance this person wants to hurt her somehow, and she just can't handle that right now.

So when she can feel tears stinging her eyes, she closes them tight and tries to swallow the lump in her throat. She doesn't notice Noah coming towards her until his arms are around her.

She thinks this is one of those things that is not considered part of his job description. That doesn't stop her from wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face against the front of his shirt. She really doesn't want to cry. Not in front of him.

He doesn't necessarily know why he's hugging her. But really, it's his job to protect her, and he thinks that might just cross over to emotions and stuff, too. So he runs his hand gently up and down her back and listens to her sniffle a little bit.

"I am a grown woman," she says after a few moments. "I should not be scared."

He pulls back a little, keeps his hands on her upper arms. "Rach, you can be scared," he tells her, and she looks at him with watery eyes. "Not that you have to be. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Her breath catches in her throat, though she doesn't think it should, but she ends up holding him tight again. She doesn't know what this middle ground is they've found, if it's only temporary, but she's going to take advantage of it. It's been a long time since she was held this way by a man. It's far more comforting than she remembers, and she has to wonder if that's just the timing of it, or if it's Noah.

"You don't have to do this," she says quietly.

He laughs, and she loves the way it sounds in his chest under her ear. "Yeah, I do."

She smiles despite herself. "I meant this," she insists, squeezing him a little tighter.

"I don't mind," he almost whispers.

The way he's holding her, the way he looks at her when she lets go, the way his fingertips skim down her arms, all have her wanting to kiss him, and she really knows she can't. He won't allow it, she's sure. The innocent flirtation is one thing, but she cannot allow herself to kiss this man, no matter how wonderful he's making her feel.

(Wonderful, cared for, protected, sexier than she's felt in years.)

... ... ...

She suggests he sleep in her beautifully decorated guest room, but he tells her the couch is fine. She tries to argue until he tells her he wants to be in the main part of the apartment, closer to the door and the majority of the windows, and she's reminded again why he's actually here. He's got a job to do. They aren't friends and he's not just visiting. He's getting paid.

So she sips the last of her chamomile tea, sets her mug in the sink and asks again if he has everything he needs. Then she walks back to her bedroom and closes the door, and she falls asleep almost instantly because she trusts that she's safe when he's so close by.

... ... ...

He wakes up early in the morning and sets his feet on the floor as he rubs his eyes. Stupid couch. The guest room would have been awesome, but it's right next to her bedroom. And really, what he said is true. The couch was just better. Is better. Fuck, he wishes he knew how long he has to stay here.

It's not that he minds. Exactly the opposite, actually. She's exactly the kind of woman he's tried to avoid. She's serious and smart and knows what she wants, and honestly, the reason he stays away from women like this is because they're the kind of women he knows he could fall in love with, and that's just not something he's really ready for, not something he wants. He doesn't think.

And whatever, he's not going to fall in love with her. Fuck. He's known her a little over a week.

His heart isn't the organ he's concerned about.

He walks down the hall towards the bathroom, but he hits his shin on this useless bench thing she has in her hallway, which makes him curse and stumble and have to brace his hand against the wall. Fuck. That shit _hurts_. He's going to have a bruise for sure.

"Noah?" she says from behind him, and he turns around, forgetting that he's wearing only his boxers. She's in these lilac coloured shorts and tank top with white lace and stuff, and her hair is messy but still looks hot as hell. "Are you okay?"

Fucking amazing. Not a bad way to start his morning.

"Yeah. Yeah, fine." He rubs his shin and he's pretty sure he needs a cold shower or a warm hand. "Go back to sleep."

"No. No, I'm awake. I was awake," she says, but her eyes are all heavy and he smirks lazily. "Okay, I wasn't but..."

He reaches out and runs his hand over her shoulder. "Go back to sleep. I'm just gonna grab a shower."

She nods sleepily and he checks out her ass as she walks back into her room.

... ... ...

Rachel is more than just a little surprised when she finally gets out of bed (she doesn't know the last time she actually slept in, but after her run in with Noah in the hall, she slept like a baby). He's standing in her kitchen, at her stove, a pan in one hand as he flips something or another. She can smell food cooking, but she can't pinpoint what, exactly, he's making. She hugs her robe to herself as she walks over to sit down at the island.

"Hey," he says, smiling lazily at her. "Hope you don't mind. Thought I'd make breakfast."

"I don't mind," she insists.

"There's coffee."

He turns his back to her again, and she honestly wonders who in the world he is. He's had about 10 different personalities since he first walked through the door of her house a week and a half ago. He was strong, quiet and surly, then he gave off the impression that he just plain didn't want to be there, then they somehow started getting along. She's still not sure how that worked. She's trying not to question it. She's sure if she brought it up, he'd scoff and roll his eyes and tell her she was crazy. And he'd probably stop talking to her all together or something, and she most definitely doesn't want that.

So she just pours herself a cup of coffee and sits back down as she waits for her breakfast to be done.

"Okay," he says after a few minutes, "Eggless eggs, tofu bacon, home fries, and toast. And seriously, if I don't eat some meat within the next day, you're gonna have to pick me up off the floor."

She laughs as he sets her plate down in front of her. "I'll have Mike bring something for you."

"Yeah, shouldn't he be calling to check in like, any second now?" Puck asks, smirking at her. He's still standing across from her, one arm bracing him against the counter as he picks at his food with his fork.

Rachel laughs quietly. "You make it sound like I can't live without him."

"Can you?" he asks, brow raised.

She swallows a bite of egg and smiles at him. "Probably not," she admits. "But he can't live without me, either."

He barks out a laugh and shakes his head. "I'm sure he'd do alright." She just stares at him for a minute. "I'm just saying. I'm sure he could manage without your crazy schedule and stalker and stuff."

She cocks her brow and sips her coffee. "He can't, however, live without the percentage of my income he earns."

Well, shit. He hadn't really thought about that.

He wonders, just for curiosity's sake, how much she earns. That number wasn't in the dosier Santana gave him. He doesn't ask, since he knows that's rude. He focuses instead on watching the way she holds her fork and how her jaw moves as she chews.

He's going to get himself into trouble. He kind of can't wait. This is the kind of trouble he likes.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'd kill to go for a walk," Rachel says, closing her book dramatically and dropping it onto the coffee table. He's doing pushups, and really, she just feels like she might need to get out of this house. He's already done approximately 200 sit ups. It's impressive and quite attractive. "I am just not used to sitting around inside."

"Yeah," he says, all short of breath and sweaty. He doesn't bother looking at her. She tries not to stare at his naked back. (She's pretty sure he already caught her staring when he took his shirt off.)

"I need something to do. Give me something to do."

He laughs a little, stops what he's doing and looks at her. "Didn't realize I was your source of entertainment."

She leans forward a little and rests her elbow on her knee. "Do you see anyone else here who can entertain me?"

He rolls his eyes. Shit like this? The flirting? Danger.

"I could bench press you."

"Come on. I'm serious," she laughs.

"So am I." She looks at him incredulously. "I could. You're fuckin' tiny."

She stands up and smiles down at him. "I'll take your word for it. I'll find something else."

When she goes into her bedroom and closes the door, it's because she simply cannot be in the same room as him right now. There's no way she can give in to what she's feeling for him (lust, insane sexual attraction). There are rules about this kind of thing, and she's sure he's not going to break them. Even if he is working out shirtless in her living room and tormenting her with his dark skin, muscled back and toned arms.

She checks her email and pulls up a couple of her favourite Broadway message boards to see what people are saying about her and this ridiculous situation. It's no surprise that everyone is on her side, but it's still nice to read.

When she hears the shower turn on, and she closes her eyes. She needs a distraction from Noah. He's her distraction from the stalker mess, but he's in her head in a way no one else has been in years.

She calls Mike and asks him to bring dinner, to get Noah a cheddar bacon burger from that 50's-style diner near her apartment building, and to pick up a couple things for her from the grocery store. He jokes that he should be getting paid more for these errands, and she reminds him in no uncertain terms that she'd much rather be able to do everything herself.

She doesn't mean to fall asleep. She thinks she's slept more in the last two days than she has in two consecutive days in years. When she wakes up again, it's to the sound of two voices in her living room. She'd love to just go back to sleep, but then she hears Mike say something about 'police' and 'progress', and she thinks maybe he's saying something she wants to hear.

She walks out into the kitchen to see them standing with their styrofoam containers open on the counter next to them. Noah has a hamburger in his hand, and Mike's got a couple french fries in his as he chews.

"Salad's in the fridge," he mumbles with his mouth full. Rachel rolls her eyes, but smiles as she walks to the refrigerator. "How are you feeling?"

"That all depends on what information you're about to tell me. Because I've got to be honest with you, I'm going insane, here," she admits.

"'S'true," Puck says. He swallows his food and washes it down with Coke. "Busy body here needs something to do."

"Yeah, I was just telling Puck that the problem with keeping you under house arrest is that they can't find the stalker unless he's actually stalking you," Mike says as Rachel gets a plate, utensils and a napkin for her salad.

"So I have to endanger my life so..."

"No," Puck says firmly. No fucking way is he letting that shit go down. He'd take a bullet if he had to, but that doesn't mean he's ready to willingly walk into a gun fight. "Not happening."

"Of course not," Mike adds. The guys follow Rachel into the dining room and the three of them sit down at the table. "They're still running facial recognition software, and they're using evidence from the..."

"When did my life become an episode of CSI?" Rachel asks as she runs her hand through her hair.

She looks upset, and Puck can't really blame her. Her entire life is being put on hold because some fucking psycho saw her picture on a billboard, popped a boner and suddenly feels like he's in love with her. He's had to deal with a couple stalker cases before, but nothing like this. This guy seriously wants to get to Rachel, and Puck's not going to let it happen. Would he like to be sleeping in his own bed? Most definitely. But he'll sleep on this couch until they find the freak out there who's so hell bent on finding her.

And he really wants to touch her right now, to reach over and run his hand over her back or squeeze her shoulder. But Mike's here, and he thinks maybe that'd be crossing a line of some sort. If he crosses any lines, he wants it to be with way less clothes on and preferably (definitely) just the two of them. So he does nothing, and listens to Mike give Rachel the details he told Puck just a few minutes ago.

When Mike leaves, Rachel stabs at her salad with a little more force than necessary before dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter. Puck is finished his food so he just looks across the table as she runs her hands slowly over her face and takes a deep breath.

"You okay?" he asks.

"No, I'm not okay," she says harshly. "I can't go outside because I have a stalker, and I can't get rid of my stalker if I don't go outside. My life is...It's a fucking disaster."

He's never heard her curse. He doesn't even get a chance to appreciate it, because he's really worried that it takes a lot of emotional fuckery to get her to swear.

"Rach."

"I just want...I never asked for any of this."

"I know," he says. He reaches across the table to rest his hand on hers. She closes her eyes and lets out a breath. "It'll be okay. They'll catch this bastard and he'll go to jail. Pretty sure dudes who stalk Broadway stars aren't exactly high up in the food chain at Rikers."

She manages a little laugh, then turns her hand so it's palm to palm with his. Her fingers graze the inside of his wrist, and he really, really likes that.

"Thank you," she says. "You're surprisingly good at comforting me with all this."

He pulls his hand away 'cause shit just got way too intense. "You're easier to be around when you're not losing your shit."

She rolls her eyes and starts poking at her salad again. "You're charming," she says sarcastically. "I'm sure the women fall over themselves to get to you."

He smirks at her and leans back in his chair. "Women love me."

"I bet," she mutters quietly, avoiding his eyes. When she looks up, she sees the quirk in his brow and the look of amusement on his face. "What? Oh, _please_. You really think I didn't already know that? I had you pegged the moment you walked through my door."

He leans his elbows on the table again. "And just what does that mean?" he asks.

She doesn't want to offend him. She's under the impression that it would take a lot more than a conversation about his history with women to upset him, but still. She's got to be stuck in this apartment with him and she knows things will go much more smoothly if they're getting along.

"Look at you," she says, letting her eyes roam over his torso, then back to his face. "You're an attractive man. You take good care of yourself, obviously. And that little smirk of yours? I've seen you flash that at women in passing. I thought half the dancers were going to strip their clothes off for you."

"I wouldn't complain," he says, winking at her.

"And that!" she cries, pointing to him with her fork. She laughs a little and he tries to look innocent. "That wink. I'm sure that's gotten you into a few beds."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You seem like an expert," he notes. She shrugs her shoulder. "Either you know what you like, or you know what to avoid."

She scoffs. "I don't have time for a man in my life. I barely have time for anything other than my work. I can spot a come on a mile away."

"Bet you get a lot of them," he says casually. She smiles at him across the table, and yeah, he can admit that was kind of a compliment or something. "Whatever, Rachel. You don't need me to tell you how good you look."

"No, I suppose I don't."

"Humble."

"Says you!" They both end up laughing, then, and their eyes meet across the table. "This hasn't been entirely terrible, you know? I didn't think we'd get along at all."

"I usually don't talk with my marks a whole lot," he admits. He shrugs his shoulder and watches as she looks down at her plate again. "I mean, why would I, right?"

"Right. Yes," she says. She forces a smile (he can tell). "It's just a job."

He doesn't know why he feels the need to say, "it's gotta be," but it's probably because they've been getting closer and closer, and this little flirtation is going to fuck everything up if he doesn't get it under control.

"Definitely," she says. She eats the last of her food and picks up her plate to carry it to the kitchen. "I'm going to go call my fathers, then I'll be in my study doing some vocal exercises."

She walks down the hall and really tries to figure out why she wants him to want her so badly.

... ... ...

When Rachel wakes up the next day, she hears Noah talking to someone, and she seriously wonders who is in her house. Why would he invite someone in? It doesn't particularly floor her that the other voice is female. She knows him well enough to know that it's not just some random woman, but still, the jealousy is inexplicably present.

She grabs her satin robe and pulls it on over her nightgown. She's decided she's not going to change how she usually acts in her home just because he's there. (And maybe part of her that thinks it's a bit of a territorial move, to be the pajama-clad woman Noah is staying with when she goes to see who he's speaking to.) She smoothes out her hair and (she hates how much effort she's putting into this) swipes on a little mascara and some subtle lip gloss.

When she walks into the living room, she sees Noah sitting on the sofa with a gorgeous latina in a grey business suit and her hair pulled into a severe ponytail. They're looking at some papers they have scattered out on the coffee table. Noah notices her first, and she sees him look slowly from her legs up to her face.

"Good morning," she says quietly.

"Rachel Berry?" the woman says, standing and extending her hand. "I'm Santana Lopez. Puck's supervisor."

"Oh!" Rachel says. She almost wants to laugh at herself for being such an idiot. Who did she think this woman was? "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Santana says.

Then she promptly ignores Rachel and sits back down. Rachel, a little taken aback, blinks a few times, looks at Noah, who glances at her apologetically. She tries to smile at him, but she doesn't know if it takes, and so she turns around and heads to the kitchen. She can still hear the conversation going on, and she grins to herself when she overhears Noah say, "That was pretty fuckin' rude, don't you think?" and Santana's reply of, "As if she'd give me the time of day if I wasn't in her house."

"She's not like that," Noah says seriously.

Rachel goes about making coffee and breakfast for herself. This Santana woman is kind of a bitch, and Rachel doesn't use that word to describe very many people.

So Rachel, because she does not take kindly to being treated this way in her own home (anywhere, really, but especially here), fixes a cup of coffee for Noah and takes it into the living room. She smiles at him as he takes it, and the grin he gives her when he and Santana realize there's no cup for the 'guest' makes Rachel's heart flutter.

"I'll be in my study," she announces, walking down the hall. God, she loves getting the last word.

... ... ...

She's got her feet up on her desk and she's listening to her favourite satellite radio show when Puck walks to her study and leans against the door frame. She's looking out the window, so she doesn't notice the way his eyes settle on her legs. He knows that if the desk wasn't in the way, he'd probably be able to see her ass, or at least a whole lot more thigh. And the sunlight is streaming in and hitting her skin, making her glow somehow, and fuck, he's a total girl for even thinking this shit.

"The bitch is gone," he says with a smirk. She looks over at him and laughs.

"Good."

"You did not like her, huh?"

She gives him a withering look. "I'm sorry. I don't appreciate being treated like an ingrate in my own home. She was a guest here. The least she could have done was acted with a little respect."

He holds his hands up as he walks further into the room, and she pulls her feet down and sets them on the floor. "Hey, don't be mad at me. I thought it was awesome. Nice touch with the coffee," he says with a smirk.

She laughs a little, runs her finger along the top of her empty mug. "I know it was terrible to stoop to her level, but I couldn't help myself."

"No worries. She's just jealous anyway."

"Jealous?" Rachel asks, eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Of what?"

"You," he says, as though it should be obvious. "Come on. Shacked up with all this?" His hands sweep over his body and Rachel rolls her eyes. "She doesn't want anyone all up in her territory."

He doesn't know why he's saying these words. It doesn't make any sense, really. He doesn't want to admit to his fucked up relationship with Santana, but he doesn't want Rachel to worry about acting the way she did (which was awesome...and hot). Santana is a bitch, and he hasn't been with her in any way in a long time.

"Her territory?" Rachel meets his eyes again. Her stomach twists when he sighs. "You...you and her?"

He shrugs. He realizes he doesn't have to defend himself to her. This is really none of her business anyway. "For a while. Over now. She's my boss."

"Oh."

He figures he can play this one of two ways. He can ignore all this and tell her to get dressed, that they're going to have a movie marathon (at least Santana brought some DVDs like he told her to), and just forget he ever said anything. Or he can play into the fact that this is obviously bothering her, and he can gauge her interest in him.

Since he really, really wants to sleep with her (he'll wait until this assignment is over if he has to; and he's pretty sure he has to) he figures option two is the best one.

He leans forward, planting his hands on the desk across from her. "Who's jealous now?" he asks. Her jaw drops and her eyes flash with something he can't quite name.

"Don't be absurd. I'm not jealous of that woman," she says seriously. She stands up, not caring that her robe is undone and slips off her shoulder a little, revealing the lace strap of her nightgown. "I just think it's kind of pathetic, really. Obviously she feels like she has some claim over you. Either you hurt her, or she still wants you. She can't seem to let it go."

"Pretty bold judgment of someone you met for thirty seconds," he says, an amused look on his face.

"I'm an excellent judge of character," she says, pointing her nose in the air a little more. "I'm going to shower."

She walks past him and he tries not to laugh.

Sure. She's not jealous at all.

... ... ...

She can't escape him. She tried to not be in the same room as him, but it's impossible. He called her in to watch some ridiculous Japanese game show on one of the channels she never watches, and they'd ended up side by side on her couch. He took a call from one of his friends, Finn, she thinks the name was, and she found herself listening to one half of the conversation as she flipped back and forth between a home design channel and the Food Network. She smiled when he laughed with his friend. She noted he was a little different, a little lighter, while he was talking to that other man.

But they've watched two movies already (one was her choice and one was his) and she's pretty sure she's going to rip her hair out if she doesn't get off this couch. Preferably out of the apartment, but she knows that idea would get shot down as soon as she voiced it.

He's been watching her all day, mostly from the corner of his eye as they sat next to one another on her crazy comfortable couch (or, his bed, depending on how you look at it). She's cute (sexy) sitting there in her jeans and tee shirt. She'd hit his thigh if she found something particularly hilarious, and she made them dinner (even cooked up some chicken for him, though he's pretty sure she was like, praying for forgiveness from the dead bird or something) and they ate, sitting on the floor with their plates on the coffee table in front of them and their legs touching.

He feels like a fucking teenager right now, happy any time she even touches him.

But really, since Santana left, Rachel has been antsy and a little irritable. Yeah, San was a bitch, but he didn't think that'd affect Rachel's mood all that much.

He can read women. Hell, he's practically made it his life's work to read women. He knows their signs and can tell what they want based on their moods, for the most part.

Rachel wants him, whether she's ready to admit it or not. When she sets her chin on his shoulder and tells him quietly that she's craving non-dairy ice cream, says it like a seductive little secret, he tries really fucking hard not to just kiss her.

And she's walking around the house in her pajamas now that it's late in the evening, and while it might not be the same as her sexy as fuck robe and little slip thing this morning, her tiny shorts and tank top are really not helping his situation right now. Especially since she's not wearing a bra. She may not have the biggest rack he's ever seen, but that doesn't mean it isn't awesome, nor does it mean that he doesn't want to see more of it. All of it. Whatever.

He's like, the poster boy for self-restraint right now.

"I'm so sick of watching television," she announces, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch between them. She doesn't even care if he was watching that show. She cannot stare at that screen anymore. "We need to do something else."

He immediately thinks of something they could do, but does not suggest it, even if he's 99 per cent sure she'd be game at this point.

She sees the look on his face and she's certain his mind is in the gutter. They've been living in this apartment together for days and the sexual tension is bordering on torturous. She thinks if they could somehow get over that without sleeping together, that'd be the best, most rational course of action.

But every time she looks at his hands, she wants them on her, and sometimes he'll lick his bottom lip and she wants to do it for him, and part of her wants to ask him not to ever wear a shirt.

"What do you wanna do?" he asks. Somehow he manages to make it sound like he isn't suggesting they strip naked and find their way to her bed.

She smiles and gets up off the sofa. "I have board games."

He waits until her back is to him before he rolls his eyes. Of course she has board games.

But really, she's right. They've been watching movies and sports and news shows, and they probably could use a break from that.

So they set up the Monopoly board on her dining room table, and he doesn't know if she means to brush his foot with hers beneath the table, but she doesn't apologize or even look at him. He thinks that might be a sign. He chooses the race car, and she plays with the little dog, and the look on her face is kind of adorable as she counts out the money and stacks it in neat little piles. She says she'll be the banker, and honestly, he doesn't really give a shit. He hasn't ever been a big fan of this game.

But then she starts strategizing as soon as they're on their second turn around the board. She gives him these sneaky little looks every time he buys a property, like she thinks he's making a mistake or she knows exactly how she's going to even the playing field. He thinks this is her idea of flirting or something. Surprisingly, it's working. He's hard as hell, and these little shorts and tank top she's wearing are definitely helping (or maybe not) that situation. He wishes he had a beer or something. Next time Mike calls to check in, he's going to tell Rachel to get the dude to bring beer. He can't get drunk, obviously, since he's working, but he could have one. Fuck, he'd even split one with her. She'd look crazy hot sipping from a bottle of beer.

"It's your turn," she tells him, her foot nudging his again. He raises his brow at her as if to ask if she's really sending him these little looks. She just points to the dice, so he rolls and that's that.

An hour and a half into the game, he's ready to play this like they did as teenagers and start drinking any time either of them rolls an odd number. Every time you pass go, you collect $200 and have to kiss another person at the table, and if you owe someone rent on a property, you have to chug your drink.

Then she starts strategically buying hotels, and he thinks he's going to_ lose his fucking mind_.

"Honestly, fuck this," he says seriously.

He shoves the game off the table and onto the floor, and the pieces clatter and bounce on the hardwood. She gasps and seems to jump a little bit in her seat.

"What are you doing?" she asks, eyes wide as she looks at him. He stands up and rounds the table, grabbing her arm and pulling her up out of her chair. "Noah."

"Shut up," he growls. He sets his hands on her hips and lifts her up so she's on the table in front of him and he's fitted between her thighs. "I can't fucking just sit here with you any more without touching you."

His lips are hovering just above hers, and she's dying for him to just kiss her already. She knows he's going to. She loves the feeling of his thighs between hers, the rough denim of of his jeans teasing her sensitive skin. She finds herself clutching his biceps and breathing a little heavier than can be considered normal.

"You've been teasing me for days," he tells her, and she wants to laugh. She hasn't been teasing, she's been practically _begging_. "I need to fuck you."

"You'll get fired."

He smirks at her and grabs her ass, pulling her closer to him so she can feel how hard he is. Her back arches just a little bit and he slips his hand up under her top so it's resting flat on her back.

"Only if you tell," he says. He grabs the bottom of her shirt and she bites her lip as he tugs it up over her head, leaving her completely naked for him from the waist up. "You won't tell, Rachel, will you?"

His fingertips are hot on her stomach as he pushes her onto her back. "No," she breathes out. His smirk is criminal, she'd swear. He hasn't even kissed her yet. Has hardly touched her. "I won't tell."

"Didn't think so."

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of her shorts and pulls them down her legs along with her panties. They fall onto the floor and he honestly doesn't think he's ever been so hard in his entire life. She's laying naked on her dining room table waiting for him to fuck her, and dammit, he's going to. He grabs the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, then unbuckles his belt and undoes his fly. She's just laying there with her chest heaving and her hand in her hair as she watches him. His wallet falls to the floor after he grabs the condom from inside, and then his pants are around his ankles and she's pushing his boxers down with her feet as he grabs her behind the knees and pulls her closer.

"Oh, god," she moans. He raises his brow as he tears the condom wrapper open with his teeth. "Just..." She lets out a breath and her gaze settles on his rather impressive length. "Look at you."

He lets out a gruff noise and strokes himself twice before rolling the condom into place. "We good without foreplay?" he asks.

She moans and she rocks her hips towards his. "Tease me and I'll kill you."

He'd make a joke about death threats, but it'd probably just scare her or piss her off and neither of those are okay, especially not right now. He just leans over and kisses her roughly, slipping one hand into her hair and kneading her breast with the other. He's pressing right against her center. It's probably the hottest thing ever when she moans into his mouth and angles her hips slightly.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against her lips.

Her heart swells, and she believes that's fairly dangerous, but he's about two seconds away from being inside her and he's just said the sweetest thing she's ever heard him say. It just makes her want him more, which cannot be healthy at this point. Then he's pulling away from her mouth and he's watching her intently as he slips his hand between them, grabbing his length and running it up and down, bumping against her clit a couple times and making her whimper.

"Please," she breathes out impatiently. "Please, just..."

Her words die on her tongue, because he's pushing into her, burying himself inside her. She's never felt so full of anything in her life, never had someone who fit her so well. She knows she says his name, and he leans forward, slides his hand under her head and pulls her towards him so he can kiss her again.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he tells her. "So fucking good." He grabs her hips as she sits on the edge of the table in front of him, teasing him with her lips and her tongue. He pulls away and looks down to see himself moving in and out of her, and he pushes her onto her back again. "I knew you'd be this tight."

She doesn't think that makes a whole lot of sense, but she doesn't care, because it's sexier than anything she's ever heard. She's about to start begging him to move faster, harder, and he hooks his arms under her knees, pulling her even closer.

"More," she pleads.

She might be begging, and normally she'd chastise herself for such a thing. But it gets the desired result. He pulls his hips back and grunts as he ratchets them against her, and she cries out because he hits a place inside her no one ever has before. She wants to say more, she really does, but she can't find coherent words when she's focusing on trying to remember to breathe.

He expected a good time. Fuck, how could he not? It's not very often (never) that he's had sex and not had a good time. This is fucking ridiculous. She's so good, so hot and wet and tight and willing. He wouldn't have been so forward (borderline forceful) if she hadn't been eye fucking him across the table all night and for the past two days. Honestly, she's been asking for it with her little outfits and her smiles and how she's been taking care of him.

But now that he's actually inside her, he can't believe he even took this long.

He drops her legs, but she raises one and rests her calf against his shoulder. He forgot she had to be flexible, that she's a dancer. Goddamn. He kisses the inside of her ankle because it's right there and it's fucking _hot. _He knows that at this angle, getting to see all of her, feel all of her, see her twisting her nipple between her fingers and arch her back and generally be the sexiest woman he's ever seen, he's not going to be able to hold out. She's meeting his thrusts with her own, and her other leg comes around him and her heel presses against the small of his back.

"Fuck, baby, gonna come," he grounds out. He watches her nod, and he doesn't exactly know what she means by it. He slides one hand up her stomach to palm the breast she isn't paying any attention to, and she grabs his hand, pulls it towards her mouth and swirls her tongue around his fingers. "Holy shit." He moves his mouth back to her ankle and sucks on the flesh there. He plans to leave a mark. She rolls her hips as he thrusts into her. "Rachel."

"Noah, I want...I need..." He slips his hand down between them and rubs her clit with his thumb in a steady rhythm, which is a lot harder than it should be, since he's pushing into her so hard and fast. "Oh, god, _yes_."

She feels his grip on her hip tighten, and he tips his head back a little bit. Moments later, he's groaning, saying her name and coming inside her, and she doesn't know if it's the feeling of him letting go or the sound of her name, but she knows she's about to fall apart. His thumb presses down hard on her clit, then he moves it in a circle, and she comes so hard her back bows off the table and she closes her eyes tight as she legitimately screams his name.

When she opens her eyes, he's staring at her. He honestly didn't expect her to come like that (that was _intense_), but it was fucking beautiful. So is the way she laughs a little as she tries to catch her breath. He kisses the red mark on her ankle one last time, smacks her thigh gently, and pulls out, collapsing back into the chair she was sitting in before he decided he needed to fuck her here and now. She closes her legs a little, arching her back again and stretching a bit before sitting up and running her hands through her hair.

"Well," she says, letting out a little noise from the back of her throat, "that was fun."

He chuckles and runs a hand over his head, then over the back of his neck. "Yeah."

She sets her feet on the floor, rests her hands on his shoulders and leans down to kiss him. His hand skims up the inside of her thigh and she shivers, gently tugging his bottom lip with her teeth.

"Let's do it again," she says, pulling away.

He watches her ass as she walks away, and when she glances at him over her shoulder, he stands and follows her.

He'd worry about mixing business with pleasure, but no one can get to her if he's next to her, on top of her, or under her (or inside her). He figures that's some sound logic right there.


	5. Chapter 5

Rachel sits in the comfortable chair in the corner of the room wearing her robe and nothing else, and she bites her thumbnail as she watches him sleep. He's naked, the sheets bunched around his hips as he lays on his stomach. His face is tilted in her direction, so she can see how peaceful he looks when he sleeps. It's not helping her try to tell herself this didn't mean anything. She's been trying for the last 20 minutes to convince herself that if you put any two attractive people of the opposite sex in the same space long enough, the result would be the same. And maybe that is the case, but it doesn't help that she actually likes him and enjoys his company.

And now she's fretting that he doesn't feel the same.

He takes a breath and shifts a little bit, and she tries not to smile too widely when she sees him reaching out for her. His eyes open when he realizes she's not there, and when they settle on her, a lazy smirk appears on his lips.

"I don't like waking up alone," he says, voice all full of sleep and sexy.

"Sorry," she says quietly.

"Get over here." She smiles as she gets up and pads across the room. As soon as she's next to the bed, his hand comes up to untie her robe, then slips inside to touch bare skin, and she shivers a little bit. "'Morning."

"Good morning," she says, placing her hand over his wrist.

He turns onto his back so he can look at her better, and he notices the way she's biting the inside of her cheek and idly running the corner of the sheets between her thumb and forefinger.

"You're freaking out," he says, even as he sets his hand on her thigh.

She shakes her head a little, and when she looks at him, he's got his brow raised. "I'm not. I just don't know how this happened."

"Three times."

"Noah," she laughs softly. "I mean, this...last night was amazing, but it may not have been the smartest thing."

He laughs and pats the space next to him, and she lays down against her better judgment. "It was fucking stupid," he says, still laughing. "But yeah, damn amazing, too."

"It probably shouldn't happen again." She's trying really hard to ignore the way his fingertips are skimming over her bare stomach and upward.

"Probably not," he admits. It's cute, he thinks, how she's trying to be all moral. "But it's going to."

She sighs, in relief, he thinks, and kisses him.

... ... ...

While Rachel showers, he decides he's going to make them breakfast and check in with Santana and maybe give Finn a call.

He nixes that last idea pretty quickly, because Finn might not be the brightest dude in the world, but he's got this really fucked up sixth sense and he can basically always tell when Puck's gotten laid. Totally eerie.

Then he looks through the kitchen into the dining room and sees the table a little off center, the chairs still pushed out, and the Monopoly board overturned and pieces scattered on the floor. And he grins to himself because it looks like the place either got robbed, or like someone got fucked on that table. He loves that he's one of only two people who actually knows.

He's just dished out bowls of this weird organic cereal Rachel told him is amazing when he hears a knock at the door, and he wonders not only who the fuck would come over so early, but also tries to decide if he should put a shirt on. The knocking gets faster and louder, so he doesn't really have a chance to grab one, and he looks out the peephole to see Rachel's friend (who's name he can't really remember right now). He unlocks the door and pulls it open, and honestly? He doesn't appreciate dudes staring at him like this. He might need to back away slowly or something.

"What's up?" he asks as the little guy breezes past him.

"You're shirtless, and where is my best friend?"

"I just woke up, and she's in the shower," Puck explains. He watches the guy look over at the sofa, where the pillow and blanket Puck usually uses are stacked neatly. "Look, do you need something? I can't just have people coming in and out of here."

Yeah, he's being a dick, but he doesn't appreciate this guy coming in here and being all demanding. Not to mention he obviously showed up unannounced. Puck wants to be pissed at the doorman and building security, but since this is apparently her best friend, he supposes he can be considered 'safe'. Also, it's the truth. It's not safe right now for there to be people walking in and out of the apartment, no matter how secure this building wants to say it is.

"What I need is to check on Rachel," the guy says.

Puck stares him down. "You don't think I'm doing my damn job?"

Buddy puts his hands on his hips and cocks his brow. "I'm worried about the girl I've known since I was 15. Forgive me if I want to..."

"Noah, I honestly can't..." Rachel walks out of her bedroom and stops in her tracks when she sees her company. "Kurt."

She's wearing nothing more than a little tank top and a tiny pair of shorts, a smile on her face and her hair in a braid over her shoulder. He doesn't know what she was going to say. Doesn't really care, either, since she looks damn hot, and he can't do anything about it with this tiny little man standing next to him.

"Safe to say you're no longer uncomfortable around Muscles, here," Kurt says, looking her up and down. Rachel's cheeks go red and she looks at Noah just in time to see him glance at his arms. She wants to laugh, but she can't, or Kurt will really start asking questions.

"We've been getting along," she answers cryptically.

Puck winks when he knows Kurt isn't watching him. Rachel shoots him a look, and he tries really hard not to start laughing.

"I thought you may want some culture and conversation," Kurt says. Puck doesn't appreciate the insinuation that he's not cultured and can't converse, or whatever the fuck this kid is trying to say.

"That's sweet," Rachel says, stepping towards them a little. "But I'm fine, really. We're fine."

Kurt looks Puck up and down. "We are indeed."

Rachel laughs and takes her friend by the elbow before Puck can do something like tell the guy in not the nicest way that he is strictly hetero (as if that isn't obvious).

"Stop flirting with my bodyguard," she says, throwing Puck a look over her shoulder. "Stay for breakfast?"

Puck is not listening to whatever Kurt is saying as Rachel leads him to the dining room. He really tries to stop her, but when he says her name, she waves him off before he can remind her that, you know, she was naked and spread eagle on that table 12 hours ago.

"Sweet Jesus, what happened here?" Kurt says. Rachel gasps and Puck's laughing in the kitchen as he starts the coffee maker.

"I fuckin' hate Monopoly," he calls through to the other room.

He sits and watches reruns of some crime show on A&E while Rachel and her friend cackle about whatever and shop online and look through magazines in the kitchen.

As soon as the door is closed and locked behind Kurt, Rachel walks over and sits on Puck's lap on the sofa, kisses him and tells him she can barely move. He smirks and she insists it's really not funny. She still lets him lay her out on the living room floor.

... ... ...

He's watching her sleep. It's kind of creepy, sort of, the way he's just laying there on his side with his head propped up on his hand. She's on her back, one hand on the pillow between them and the other over her stomach. She's not wearing any makeup or anything, and he thinks it's really awesome how she insisted he sleep with her in her room.

And he thinks it's really fucked up how he doesn't want anything bad to ever happen to her. It goes beyond just being her bodyguard. He genuinely cares about her, and he honestly doesn't know when the fuck that happened.

Then she takes a deep breath, blinks a couple times, looks at him and smiles before going right back to sleep, and you know what? He's not going to ask any questions about why he suddenly has feelings for her (or anyone). Feelings just get him into trouble, and he really doesn't need any more of that.

... ... ...

He tells her he's not going to let her put clothes on all day, and she wonders how that's even possible.

"What about food?" she asks.

"What about it?"

She turns in his arms so she's facing him, runs a finger down his jaw. "Who cooks naked?" He raises his brow and smirks. "You, obviously," she laughs. "That's your job, then."

"You can come with. Be my sous chef. You naked with a knife in your hand? Fuckin' sexy," he murmurs against her temple.

She laughs and her hand slips down his body. He groans and shifts a little. He keeps telling her how tired he is, but really, he doesn't stop her any time she starts something. Or if she does something he deems sexy, he'll press her into the mattress or pull her onto him or push her thighs apart and slide down her body until her hands are in his hair. So really, she doesn't think he's too serious about this 'exhaustion' thing.

"Need food," he grounds out. She smiles and looks up at him. He seems to be fighting something. Probably giving in. She strokes him once, twice, and tries not to laugh when she sees him fist the sheets in his hand. "Rach, fuck. Serious. You gotta..." She twists her wrist, runs her thumb over the head. "If you're gonna make me come, do it when you're on top of me."

She doesn't know if he's really serious, but he's hard in her hand, and she's not about to leave him like that, so she throws one leg over his hips and guides him into her.

And no, they don't get dressed for the rest of the day. He makes pasta, curses every time the hot water hits his skin as it boils. She stays in the bedroom and they share a plate as they eat, and really, she thinks she's getting far too used to having him around.

... ... ...

"What?" he barks into the phone.

Seriously. Do people not know that he shouldn't be interrupted when he's laying in bed and watching a sexy as fuck woman walk towards him in nothing but a towel with her hair all wet and this little smile on her face that...

"'Sup?"

Puck rolls his eyes. Finn. Of course. Puck groans when Rachel drops her towel and stands at her closet with her back to him. If she hadn't been trying to fuck him into a coma for the last few days, he'd call her a tease.

When she looks over her shoulder after hearing him, he's fucking pissed. And totally turned on. Which is fucked, 'cause he's talking to a dude.

"Busy."

"Doing what? Aren't you still on house arrest with that girl?"

"Yeah. Gotta, you know, make sure things are..." Rachel turns around, totally naked, and throws a lightweight dress onto the foot of the bed. She smiles at him, looks down and runs her hand over her stomach to wipe some water away. "God."

"What?" Finn laughs. Then his voice goes serious. "Puck, man, did you..."

"Dude, nothing. I gotta go," Puck says quickly. It doesn't even make sense, but he doesn't give a shit. He hangs up the phone and throws it onto the bedside table. "What're you doing?"

She glances at him as she looks through her dresser drawer. "Me?"

He scoffs, tilts his head. "Yeah, you. Tryn'a tease me?"

She shrugs and pulls a pair of panties from the drawer, bends down to pull them on. (Like that's a horrible visual...)

"I'm just getting dressed."

"Yeah right," he laughs, shaking his head. He stands from the bed, stretches his arms up over his head. She actually giggles and walks over to the bed after fastening her bra. She reaches for the dress and gathers it in her hands, his eyes on her the whole time. "Why are you doing that?"

She laughs and pulls the dress over her head. She looks really hot in the blue fabric, and it looks super soft, so he touches her. You know, just to confirm. "I haven't worn clothes in better than a day. I don't think you can complain."

He raises his brow. "Really?" His hands skim up her sides and he palms her breasts. "Pretty sure I can." She kisses him. He digs that he doesn't have to initiate all the time. "What are we doing today?"

She laughs and pulls away from him, handing him a pair of boxers from the basket on the floor. They did laundry (naked) yesterday. "You make it sound like there are a lot of options."

"Well," he says lecherously, checking out her ass as she makes the bed, "we've made pretty good use of our time."

She laughs when he walks up behind her and rests his hands on her hips, pulling her back into him. "We've had sex more times than I can count," she says. He grins, even though she can't see. "We could attempt to keep ourselves occupied in other ways."

"Fine," he grumbles, kissing the back of her neck. "20 bucks says we end up fucking within an hour."

"Noah!" she shrieks, pulling away from him and swatting his arm lightly. "That's horrible."

He arcs his brow and locks eyes with her. "It's really not horrible, baby."

See, he's noticed in the last however many days (he's lost count) that she really likes it when he calls her baby. Not that he wouldn't probably do it anyway.

"Who was on the phone?" she asks, stepping into the hall. He grabs his pants and tugs them on as he follows her.

"Finn."

Yeah, she knows all about his friends and stuff. Whatever. They've obviously talked.

"Kind of a rude way to leave a conversation, don't you think?" She raises her brow and he kisses her forehead before they walk into the living room.

"Kind of a cruel thing to do, parading around all naked and shit in front of me," he says. She giggles a little and sits down on the sofa, and he moves to sit next to her. "Tease."

"You really can't keep calling me that," she tells him. They both know she's right.

He leans over, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he slides his hand up her thigh under the hem of her dress. Her breath hitches and he takes her earlobe between his teeth, tugging gently, then soothing the spot with his tongue.

"What're you gonna do about it?" he asks.

Girl doesn't even last 10 minutes before she's naked again.

They're laying there together on her sofa, her in his arms and just a thin blanket over them.

"You owe me 20 bucks," he murmurs against her temple, both of them half asleep.

He's probably not going to hold her to it.

... ... ...

Sometime around 7:30, after Kurt has come and brought them Chinese for dinner, their phones ring at almost the exact same moment.

"It's Mike," she tells him brow furrowed as she wipes sweet and sour sauce from her lip with her thumb.

"Santana," he says, phone in hand. He notices that she makes a face, but doesn't say anything about it.

She runs her hand over his shoulder as she walks past him and down the hall, and he's most definitely watching her go as he answers his call. Rachel looks over her shoulder at him before she slips into her study. She's already answered the phone, but it's a little hard to make small talk with Mike while she's watching Noah stand and pace her living room floor with his phone to his ear.

"Well, I'd ask if you have a job or an appearance for me, but I think I already know the answer," Rachel says, attempting a joke.

"Actually," Mike says. It sounds like he's smiling. She thinks that's a really, really good sign. "I have good news. Last night they caught someone outside your building. Well, climbing up the fire escape to the third floor, actually."

"What?" Rachel asks breathily before sitting back on her chair.

"They got him, Rachel," he insists. She feels her throat tightening. Everything has been so crazy and stressful, but she's kind of forgotten about it for the past few days. Still, this is really, really good news. "He matches the description, and when they went to his place, they found pictures and...It's him."

"So I can...I can go back to work? I can go to the Tonys? I can...?"

"You can do whatever you want," he tells her. She doesn't know why she's crying. This is amazing. Everything can go back to normal. She can get back to the theater and go outside and shop for groceries and...

"I have to tell Noah," she says, hoping to disguise the strange tone her voice has taken. She doesn't know why. She's assumed all along that as soon as their 'house arrest' was over, they were over. She doesn't know if it's true, but she hasn't wanted to set herself up for disappointment.

"His boss should be calling him soon." Of course. Santana. "Listen, I have to take care of some stuff, press and whatnot. I'll call you later, alright? Your first show back is tomorrow afternoon. Don't be late."

She laughs. Late? Never. "Goodbye, Mike," she says. "And thank you."

"Just glad you're safe."

She smiles and lets out a little sigh as she hangs up the phone.

She walks into the living room just in time to see Noah end his call and drop his phone onto the table. There are tears in her eyes again, and she blames them on how overwhelming her week has been. With the stalker and she and Noah starting this relationship. It was meant to be completely physical. She wasn't supposed to like him. He wasn't supposed to be sweet and funny and smart and generous.

She was not supposed to develop feelings for him.

He turns around and sees her there, and he smiles at her as she walks quickly towards him. She wraps her arms around him. He holds her tightly, buries his nose in her hair and runs his hand up and down her back.

"It's over, baby," he says soothingly. She nods. "Stop crying."

There's a stupid, selfish, idiotic part of him that wants at least some of those tears to be for him, but that's just ridiculous, because it's not like he wants her to cry at all or whatever. That's the problem, isn't it? He's been around the last however long (he's honestly lost count) and has been able to make sure she's okay and she's not freaking out or whatever. What happens when he leaves? And why does he care?

Feelings are a bitch. He really just doesn't know what to do with them.

He doesn't let her go, and she realizes that if her life is going back to 'normal', she doesn't want it to happen without being honest with him.

"I don't want you to leave," she admits, voice muffled against his shirt.

He sighs and closes his eyes. This is normally the part where he'd tell her it was fun, that he'd call her, and run out the door, then dodge her until she got the message. But he doesn't do that. He doesn't want to. He just wants to be around her, and it's totally fucked up, because all he's done for however long is be around her. And he's fucking terrified.

"I'm not," he tells her.

She pulls away, wipes her eyes. "What?"

"Well, I'm your bodyguard for another week. There's a contract."

"Oh," she says quietly. She takes another step back and crosses her arms, looking to the floor. "Of course."

Fuck. How could he fuck that up? How could he have possibly fucked that up?

"No, that's not what I..." He sighs and closes his eyes. "I didn't mean it like that." She's still not looking at him, so he puts his hand on her cheek, the other on her hip. She finally raises her eyes. Fuck, they're all sad and stuff. She should be so happy right now. "I don't need a paycheck to be around you."

"Right," she whispers.

"Rachel, come on. You know how much I risked even kissing you the fist time?" he asks. He's trying not to be pissed, but it's kind of hard when she doesn't believe him. "I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to."

"It's stupid, but I don't want...This thing between us, Noah, I don't want to just..."

He smirks at her and runs his thumb over her cheek. "You know how hilarious it is to see you not be able to finish a sentence?" he teases. She closes her eyes and he pulls her against him. "Look, the last time I had a girlfriend I was in high school. I don't know how to do this shit."

She looks up at him with wide eyes as she smiles. "You want me to be your girlfriend?"

Well, fuck. He doesn't know. He doesn't want her to be his nothing. He wants her to be more than just a fuck buddy, but he doesn't want to marry her or anything. He figures girlfriend is in the middle, right?

He shrugs his shoulder. "I guess."

"You guess?"

He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm so fucking bad at this," he mumbles. "Look. I like you, Rachel. You're awesome, and nice, and fucking..." He pauses, looks her up and down. "You're sexy as hell, and you're basically the best sex I've ever had. So yeah, I want more of all that. Whatever that makes you to me, that's what I want."

She laughs. He just got as emotional as he ever gets with women, and she's fucking laughing at him. He rolls his eyes and tries to pull away, but she grabs his arm and then links her fingers with his.

"I'm not laughing at you," she insists. It's creepy, how she seems to read his mind sometimes. "It's just sweet, that's all."

"And that's funny somehow?"

She leans up and kisses the side of his mouth. Not enough. He grabs her, slips his hand into her hair and kisses her the right way.

"I like it," she says, grabbing onto his shirt at the back of his neck. He slides one hand down her thigh and pulls her against him, lifting her leg around his hip in the process. She squeals a little, and he kisses her. "Noah!"

"We gotta celebrate, baby," he tells her, one brow raised.

She should not trust the wicked little grin on his lips, but she kisses him and he's carrying her towards the bedroom with his hands under her ass, and as he's undressing her, kissing whatever bare skin he leaves behind, he murmurs that she's safe and no one's going to hurt her, and honestly, she thinks she could fall in love with him if he'd let her.


	6. Chapter 6

The problem is that now that she's in the real word again, he's reminded all the fucking time about how impressive she is. She's a million times too good for him, and if he tells her that, she'll probably lose her mind and slap him or something, but it's true. Everyone loves her. All her castmates are crazy about her (one chick cries and hugs Rachel for a full minute her first day back at work). There are fans outside the theater and she signs autographs for over an hour, thanking everyone for their support and everything.

They're at Letterman right now, which is pretty cool, but shit, he's just a guy in a $30 pair of jeans and a Gap tee shirt, and she's wearing a $700 dress and shoes he doesn't even want to know the details of. And she's charming and funny and fucking adorable. He's just about the most confident guy around, but it's hard not to feel a little down on yourself when you're apparently dating the Queen of New York.

He stayed over last night, which was interesting to manage, since her friends now think they can come and go whenever they want (he realizes they probably did this before, only she wasn't getting railed on a regular basis, so it didn't matter). At one point, he was naked and she asked him to 'hide in the bathroom' when she heard the door open. Hiding in the bathroom gave him ample time to lose the boner which was about to make this evening a whole lot of fun. Lucky for him (maybe the both of them) she took pity on him and did some awesome stuff and they were back in business in no time.

Anyway, he thinks he needs just a bit of a break from The Rachel Berry Show, which he's learning is basically_ the whole world_ any time they're out in public.

After she's pushed the door open, she seems to realize he's not walking in behind her. "Noah?"

"Yeah," he says, running a hand over the back of his neck. "I think I'm gonna head home."

"Oh. Okay."

In her defense, she does a really great job of making it seem like she's not disappointed.

"It's late, and I should really..."

"No, I understand," she says. She leans up on her toes and kisses his cheek, smiles when she pulls away. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He waits until he hears the lock click into place before heading for the stairs. He's two blocks away when he asks himself what the fuck he's doing. Her fame has nothing to do with how awesome she is. Well, maybe it does, but he shouldn't care about that. Their lives are completely different, but whatever. And yes, they've talked about how everything will change when he's not her bodyguard. Their schedules will be totally different and it'll probably be hard to see one another, but they know that. He should be spending as much time with her as he can right now, not walking away.

But he's good at walking away. He knows how to walk away. He doesn't really know how to stay.

... ... ...

Rachel isn't crazy. She knows a brush off when she sees one. It hurts a little that Noah is giving her one, but she's not about to shed tears over it, because what they are hasn't even been going on for two weeks, and in two days, he won't be around her all the time. Admittedly, she's gotten used to it, likes it. She tried to stop herself from getting attached, but it's a little hard when you see someone all day every day. Even if they weren't sleeping together (seeing one another?) she'd be attached to him.

She also knows it's not easy for people to be around her while she's working. She's focused and in character, or she's got cameras in her face and she's trying to make a good impression.

She wouldn't give her career up for anything. She thinks she'd give up all the extra stuff for the right man.

Noah leaving hurt a little more than it should have, but she's not going to fret about it. He's a man and men need space. And to be honest, a full night of sleep would be fantastic, and she knows if he had come in, she wouldn't have gotten that.

Still, when she lays down in the dark in the center of the bed like she always used to do, it feels strange and it takes her twice as long to get to sleep without him next to her.

... ... ...

He knocks on the door an hour and a half before he's due to meet her.

He figures this could go one of a few ways. Either she totally understands and they get to fuck around for a while (ideal, obviously), she gets pissed and yells at him for a while (not so ideal) or she kicks him out and he eats breakfast at that diner down the street until she's ready to go to work (worst case scenario).

"Hi," she says, surprised when she opens the door. She's holding the front of her robe closed. "You're early."

"Yeah, I know." He walks inside and pushes the door closed, locking it behind him. She's in the kitchen pouring him a cup of coffee when he finds her again. "So look, last night, I kinda fucked up."

Her stomach falls. She hates herself for thinking the worst already. Did he leave her place and go find some other woman? No. No, he wouldn't do that. So what's he so nervous about?

"Okay," she says timidly, handing him a mug.

"I should have stayed, but...I'm like, watching you be famous and stuff, and it's totally fucking with me." She furrows her brow and sits on one of the stools at the counter, pulls out the one next to her for him. "I'm just getting the hang of being your...whatever I am, then I realize you're this celebrity and everyone actually cares about you."

"I'm sure that can't be easy," she reasons, shaking her head slowly. She hates that her 'fame' is an issue for men. Hates it. They get all intimidated and start questioning their role in the relationship. "But, I..."

"I'm just...Okay, look. I'm not the most cultured guy, and Mike would shit a brick if he knew you were slumming it with me," he says, because he was up half the night thinking it, and it needs to be said. He doesn't doubt that he'll treat her right and rock her world (let's be honest) and be good for her, but no one else will think so.

She turns to him with a stony look on her face. "I am not _slumming it_ with anyone," she says seriously. He tries not to look at her, and she puts her hand on his thigh. That gets his attention every time. "This isn't some joke to me. God, I'm pushing 30. I don't have time to joke." He raises his brow at her, breaks a bit of a smirk. "Oh god," she groans, pressing her forehead against his shoulder. "Please forget that I referenced any kind of serious future."

He probably surprises himself when he just kisses her forehead and smiles.

He never really thinks of the future when it comes to women. _Ever_. Basically, they all serve a purpose, fulfill a need, then it's over. It's not like that with Rachel. He likes her. He likes talking to her. He _wants_ to talk to her. He wants to see her every day for the foreseeable future.

He really, really should have stayed last night.

"Okay," he says quietly. "I'm freaking out for no reason."

"No," she insists. "You're really not. I'm sure it's strange, seeing that part of my life. But it's not...Nothing that happens to be there can affect anything here." She squeezes his thigh and he bows his head. "I don't want you to think it does."

"You're kinda sweet, Rach," he states matter-of-factly, tries to make it sound like he's joking, even though they both know he's totally not. She laughs softly and her hand slides to the inside of his thigh. He glances over at her with his brow raised just in time to see her shrug her robe off her shoulder.

"You know, there are studies that show coffee really isn't the best way to wake up in the morning," she says coyly, pulling the mug from his hand as she cups him through his jeans. "Some people don't..."

"Jesus fuck, Rachel," he laughs. "If you're trying to seduce me, just stick with taking your clothes off. To hell with all this scientific shit."

She pouts for about two seconds, until he's got her wrist in his hand, putting more pressure on his crotch, and his other hand pressing against her through her panties.

She honestly doesn't know how he managed to touch her like that so quickly, but she doesn't have time to be impressed, because he's kissing her and she almost falls off her stool (he laughs, and she doesn't appreciate it) when he slips his hand into her panties.

"My room," she breathes out against his cheek. "Noah, take me to my room."

He's sure she's expecting him to be all romantic and pick her up gently and be like some douche from a shitty movie or whatever. If she doesn't know by now that that's just not how he rolls, she needs to learn.

He stands, grabs her around her waist and lifts her up over his shoulder. She shouts his name (_not_ a deterrent) and grabs onto his shirt. His arm is across the back of her thighs, and he's smiling as she starts giving him reasons to put her down. Not gonna work, but she's cute for trying. Halfway down he hall, he pushes up the fabric of her robe, turns his head and bites down gently on her ass through her panties. She squeals, giggles, and totally fucking loves it.

When he drops her onto her bed, she looks like a wreck. Her hair's all messy, and her robe is practically falling off her body, and he can see that her panties are wet.

"God, you're sexy," he says, taking his shirt off. She giggles again and brushes the hair out of her eyes, bites her lip as she looks him up and down. She pushes the robe off the rest of the way and drops it onto the floor, leaving her in just a pair of panties. "Take 'em off, Rachel."

He drops his pants and boxers as she slides her panties down her legs, and he is totally going to make up for leaving her alone last night.

... ... ...

The last day he's on Rachel's detail is kind of completely weird. She's all quiet and stuff, and he's trying to make it feel like any other day, but they both know it's not. He's got three days off, then he goes to work guarding for some Asian business man who's in town for a week and a half. He joked to Rachel that the upcoming job won't be anything like this one, but she didn't find the humour in it. He's trying. She's being difficult.

"Rachel," he says after her first show. They're in her dressing room and she's leafing through a magazine with so much force she rips a couple pages. "Hey. Could you look at me?"

"What?"

He tilts his head and looks at her, trying to get her to realize how ridiculous she's being without having to tell her how ridiculous he's being.

"You're pouting."

"I am not pouting," she snaps. He raises his brow and grins at her. "Shut up."

"Rach," he laughs. "C'mere." She sighs and slides closer to him on the sofa, where his arm is open for her to lean against him. "Stop losing your shit for me, okay?"

"I don't want it to be hard." He starts laughing and she elbows him in the ribs. "Don't be gross."

"It will be hard," he says, and he really doesn't even mean it as a disgusting joke, which really, she should be proud of. "I mean, these three days off? Don't expect me to leave your place, except to get drunk with the guys. Even then, I'll probably show up and want sex." She pulls a face and shakes her head. "'S'true."

"We're just barely starting this, and I don't want..."

"Hey,_ I_ know," he says, cutting her of. "How 'bout you don't get all negative and shit before we even go on a date?"

She pulls away, smiling brightly. Her knee is pressed against his thigh and her hand is on his shoulder. "We're going on a date?"

"Isn't that what we're supposed to do?" he asks. Shit. Does she think he can't take her out or something? "I mean, we might have to go to Canada so people don't recognize you, but..."

"Stop it," she says quietly, leaning over to kiss his cheek. What's with this cheek kissing business? He wants the real deal. "After the Tonys."

"Hmm?" He's a little distracted by her lips and the fact that he can see directly down her shirt and she's not wearing a bra right now.

"My time off starts after the Tonys. I know you'll be working, but we could go on a date then."

He nods, kisses her (he just has to) and lets his hand wander up her body to cup her breast through her shirt. Not his fault she's tempting him. She giggles a little when he pushes her onto her back and he's on top of her, because anyone could walk into this room right now and catch them. It would probably be a bad thing, but he's basically ready to fuck her right now, so his judgment is a little clouded.

"Noah," she breathes out against his ear, "we can't. Not here."

"We can be stealth about it."

She laughs again and pushes at his chest. She thinks it's cute that he really believes the two of them possess the ability to be 'stealth', especially about this. "Someone could walk in."

"Let 'em." He kisses down her neck, pushes her shirt aside so he has access to her collarbone.

"Noah," she says firmly. He sighs and drops his head to her shoulder.

"You're fucking mean," he says, and this is as close to pouting as he'll get. "If you knew how hot you are, you wouldn't be stopping me."

He sits up again and she pulls herself up off the sofa, leans over to kiss his forehead. "That doesn't even make any sense," she insists. "But I recognize and appreciate the compliment."

He smiles at her and shakes his head as he watches her grab her phone and start responding to emails. She's doing it much more happily now. He's starting to think he won't be so bad at this boyfriend stuff.

... ... ...

"I look like an _idiot_," he insists, tugging at his collar.

"Don't fuss with it!" she shouts. He walks over to where she's standing in her huge walk in closet. He'd much rather just stay here with her, especially since she's wearing this black strapless bra and panties. Her black satin gown is hanging on the back of the closet door. "You look gorgeous."

"Liar," he mumbles.

"Noah," she laughs, walking towards him. Her hair is all pinned up and her makeup is flawless. It's hard not to look at her right now. "You look incredible. This tux is tailored perfectly, and..." She looks him up and down. "Just trust me."

She doesn't know why she's blushing. They've been together over six months and everyone important already knows.

Tonight, the rest of the world finds out.

Okay, perhaps that's a bit dramatic, but she thinks it might still be true. They're going to a costume gala (he's complained about the event for weeks, even though she's given him a hundred different chances to get out of it). There will be photographers and press and all that, and she cannot wait to show up on the arm of this handsome man. Mike took the news exceptionally well, and she knows that's because he and Noah get along very, very well. Kurt wasn't surprised at all. Santana was still a bitch about it, but Rachel doesn't really care what that woman says or does. The rest of Noah's friends have told her multiple times (every chance they get) that she's too good for him. She disagrees, kisses his cheek when he gets mad and cusses them out.

"You look at me like that and it makes me want to keep you right here," he murmurs, hands on her hips. She's so fucking hot. And he hasn't seen her in the dress she's going to wear, but she can't possibly look bad in anything. Seriously, it's practically an impossibility.

"We're in my closet," she laughs, trying to pull away from him. He shrugs his shoulder and she rolls her eyes.

He leans against the wall and she grabs the dress off the hanger. See, part of what's so great about her is that she's totally relaxed when she's around him. She has been since he was her bodyguard and stuff. They're together almost all the time, when neither of them are working. It can get rough, since their hours are opposite and they both have pretty demanding jobs, but they make it work.

And he told her he loves her last week, so she's been on cloud nine for a few days, and she's fucking adorable when she's all giddy.

He still doesn't really know how he let her convince him to wear a tuxedo and go to this costume whatever the hell it is. The convincing involved sex, he knows that much. Can't say the girl doesn't know him.

"Zip me?" she asks, holding up her dress and turning around.

He smirks and kisses the juncture of her neck and shoulder as he puts one hand on her waist, takes the zipper in the other. "Only if you let me unzip you later."

He smoothes his hand over the fabric to get out a wrinkle (also to touch her ass a little bit, because face it, that's not ever a bad thing). She turns, just barely brushes her lips against his.

"Who else would I get to unzip me?" she asks, eyes locked with him as she walks over to get her shoes.

Seriously, he loves her like crazy.

... ... ...

He steps out of the limo and tries hard to ignore that he's being blinded by idiots with cameras. He thinks it's fucked that Rachel spends a lot of time ignoring these photographers, but then flashes smiles and wants to look perfect for them at events like this. Whatever. Not his place to comment, he supposes.

He reaches his hand out for her so he can help her out of the car, and she smiles at him and runs her hands over the front of her dress once she's standing on the sidewalk.

He is totally and completely uncomfortable as they start walking down the red carpet towards the doors to the building.

But then she weaves their fingers together and leans up to speak into his ear.

"Relax," she says, and he nods and smiles, throws her a wink. She tugs his hand and he leans down again. "I love you."

He kisses her temple and a million flashes go off, but he really doesn't care.

The whole thing is kind of boring after that. It's a lot of hand shaking and smiling and pretending he knows who these famous people are. He meets a couple people he actually cares about, but the rest of the time he just stands next to Rachel with a glass of scotch in his hand and listens to her talk. It's not horrible. And any time he starts thinking it is, he just locates her zipper at the back of her dress and checks his watch.

She catches him doing it once. She just smiles and blows him a kiss.


End file.
